LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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IRISH^OETS apd^P^VELISTS 



PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED AND EMBRACING 



COMPLETE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THOSE WHO AT HOME AND 

ABROAD HAVE SUSTAINED THE REPUTATION OF IRELAND 

AS THE LAND OF SONG AND STORY 



COPIOUS SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WRITINGS 



^ jyfor 



REV. DrO. CROWLEY 

President of the Youths' Directory 



INTRODUCTION BY 

Thomas R. Bannerman 



" Carmine fit vivax virtus, expersque sepulcri, 
Notitiam serae poBteritatis habet." 

The fame of great and noble deeds, 
Wing'd with his matchless lore, 

The poet's pen sends echoing down 
To Time's remotest shore. ( 



/ ci'2^i'%0 



1892 



■'7 . 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by 

1). O. Crowley, 

In the Oflace of the Librarian at Washington, D. C. 



Electrotyped and Printed by P. J. THOMAS, 
505 Clay St., San Fransisco, Cal. 



PREFACE. 



IN presenting this volume to the public, the editor 
claims for his share no other merit than that 
of accuracy in the biographical data which have 
been collected from different sources at the cost of 
considerable time, and not without labor. All other 
merits belong to the gifted children of the Gael 
whose life-trials and triumphs he has endeavored to 
portray. 

Irish literature is not wanting in collections of 
songs and ballads. It is admitted on every side that 
the songs of Erin stand unrivaled; and both in 
quantity and quality her ballad-poetry ranks next 
after that of Scotland. But, up to a very recent date, 
comparatively little has been done towards preserving 
biographies of those to whom she is indebted for 
such priceless treasures. A few books have of late 
been printed in the United States with a view to 
remedy this defect; but they are all so bulky and, in 
many instances, so badly bound as to render them 
useless, except as works of reference. Besides, the 
price of those tomes is so high that it places them 

beyond the reach of the mass of our people. 

(iii.) 



IV. PEEPACE. 

It is, therefore, to supply a popular want that these 
sketches and poems have been collected from the 
pages of the Celtic Magazine, in v/hich they first 
appeared under the title they still retain. 

The portrait of Kichard D 'Alton Williams which 
appears in this work is the only one ever published 
of that graceful and gifted writer. The miniature 
ivory portrait, of which our frontispiece is a faithful 
copy, was made when " Shamrock" had the honor of 
being a political prisoner, in Newgate, on account of 
his participation in the 'Forty-Eight movement. 
This is the first and only one ever taken of him. 
As the reader will readily observe, he was sketched 
in prison garb. His sole surviving son, Mr. Dalton 
Williams of New Orleans, was good enough to have a 
cop3^ made specially for Irish Poets and Novelists — 
a favor which is highly appreciated. 

The portrait of that sweet charmer of the lyre, 
James Joseph Callanan, so far as can be learned, has 
never before appeared in print. The one that accom- 
panies his life-sketch in the present work is supposed 
to have been taken in his native city before he left 
forever the land of his love. 

Here also the reader will find, for the first time 
in extenso,a memoir of that genuine poet and patri- 
otic Irishman, Bartholomew Dowling, who has done 
good work in the domain of Irish literature. Like 



PREFACE. 



most men of genius he was modest, and wrote seem- 
ingly without any intention of leaving his work be- 
hind him in a collective form. The disjecta membra 
poetae have, however, been gathered together in this 
volume. The consciousness of having assisted in 
rescuing the poems of this excellent author from the 
brink of oblivion more than compensates for the 
labor expended on the entire book. 

It may be objected that we have omitted many of 
Ireland's best poetical writers here. Very true; the 
author of the Irish Melodies is not mentioned; nor 
are many others of greater note than some of those 
represented, because we seek not so much to increase 
the fame of well-known poets as to popularize those 
comparatively unknown, but whose works, neverthe- 
less, entitle them to our gratitude and admiration. 

The Editor. 



INTRODUCTION. 




HE ruthless efforts of the British Government 
to degrade and stifle the mental energies of 
the Irish people are little known to the great 
mass of their descendants in these later days of 
intellectual freedom. Occasional mention is made 
of the atrocious Penal Code, which, even as recently 
as the beginning of the present centviry, was enforced 
by those of whom the immortal Davis wrote: 

' They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, 

To sell the priest and rob the sire; 
Their dogs were taught alike to run 
Upon the scent of wolf and friar." 

But how few, even amongst the friends of the 
Irish cause, are intimately familiar with the text 
and the means employed for the execution of those 
monstrous enactments against the acquirement and 
dissemination of human knowledge ! 

The question involves one of the darkest pages of 
history and possesses a deep import for all who 
belong either closely or remotely to that widely- 
scattered but ambitious and hopeful part of the 
world's population known as the Irish Nation. The 
Goths and Vandals, sweeping down from the shores 
of the Baltic and razing to the earth the temples of 
art and science, were less malignant in their purpose 

(vii.) 



vm. INTRODUCTION. 

than the statesmen who framed those statutes for the 
suppression of education in Ireland. The former, 
rude and barbarous, destroyed the fountain of know- 
ledge but spared the stream that supplied it, whilst 
the latter, with ripe experience in the ways of civili- 
zation, not only shattered the receptacle but also 
penetrated to the depths in order to obstruct the 
current upon which a nation depended for intellec- 
tual existence. All the furies of a merciless tyranny 
were directed against the schoolmasters of Ireland 
by a monarchy which boasted of its own wealth of 
learning and the liberality of its patronage of art 
and literature. It was not the semi-barbarous Goth 
but the civilized Anglo-Norman of the seventeenth 
and eighteenth centuries that proved the greatest 
scourge of knowledge in Ireland. It was not the 
wild tribesmen from the mountains of Northern 
Europe, but the titled courtiers and mail-clad war- 
riors from the land of Shakespeare, of Bacon, of 
Macauley and of Locke, that rifled the archives of 
the Irish monasteries and wantonly destroyed the 
ancient treasures of a nation of scholars. The 
spectacle of a people made helplessly illiterate by 
process of law should excite resentment in the mind 
of every lover of justice. It should also stand as a 
barrier for the protection of their descendants, so 
frequently subjected to humiliation and reproach 
by those .who are either ignorant of or otherwise 
blindly prejudiced to the facts of history. 

During recent generations the people of Ireland, 
both at home and abroad, were but too often com- 



INTEODUCTION. IX. 

pelled to hear the coarsely-insulting designation, 
" ignorant Irish " — a phrase which found its origin 
upon the lips of the very enemies who despoiled 
their country's institutions of learning, and after- 
wards, by means of the most infamous legislation, 
sought to obliterate every vestige of their former 
enlightenment. 

This galling insult burned deeply into the hearts 
of millions who keenly felt its injustice whilst be- 
holding in the ivy-clad ruins of their beloved ''Insula 
Sanctorum" the proofs that they were not ignorant 
by choice, but because of the Nero-like persecution 
waged against the teachers who would have instructed 
them. 

The skeleton of the Penal Code should not be per- 
mitted to lie undisturbed in the closet of imperial 
England. 

Justice to the Irish people of the present, as well 
as to the memory of those of the past, demands that 
the monstrous relic should be exposed. Ours is an 
age of investigation and progress ; and it is due the 
educated Irish of to-day as well as their descendants 
in this thrice-blessed land of freedom that the reason 
of the existence of the so-called " ignorant Irish " of 
years gone by should be fully and effectively ex- 
plained. The utterance of Burke should be known 
and remembered by all who would bear testimony 
to the iniquitous character of the Penal Code and 
its blighting effects upon the inhabitants of Ireland. 
"It was," says the eminent statesman, " a machine 
of wise and elaborate contrivance, and as well fitted 



INTRODUCTION, 



for the oppression, impoverishment and degradation 
of a people, and the debasement in them of human 
nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted 
ingenuity of man." With such a machine in opera- 
tion it is not at all surprising that the tree of 
knowledge ceased to bear fruit amongst the sons and 
daughters of Erin. On the contrary, being so per- 
fectly equipped for the accomplishment of evil, it is 
simply a wonder that the fell purpose of those who 
introduced the engine of destruction was not wholly 
consummated. The Irish people were oppressed, 
impoverished, and degraded; but not all the fiendish 
ingenuity of their enemies could produce " the de- 
basement in them of human nature itself." As a 
nation, they have never borne the taint of debase- 
ment. Even from the remote period of their exalted 
paganism down to the days of the present they have 
been distinguished as the guardians of social purity, 
the patrons of chivalry and the devoted conservators 
of song and story. The authors of the Penal Code 
succeeded in depriving them of the benefits of educa- 
tion, but struggled in vain to destroy their love and 
loyalty for the " Soggarth Aroon " and the ever- 
faithful poet, by whose ministry and lays they were 
alone preserved from spiritual and natibn'al decay. 
This love and loyalty, born in the dark days of 
oppression and still active and unwavering in the 
hearts of millions, is most felicitously commemo- 
rated in the pages of the volume herewith given to 
the public. 

The pen of the reverend author could not have 



INTRODUCTION. 



XI, 



been more fittingly employed than in spreading the 
fame of those who, without the expectation of mate- 
rial reward, devoted their genius and talents to a 
poor and helpless motherland in order that she 
might perpetuate the existence of her ancient 
nationhood. His patient research has brought to 
this work much valuable information which has 
never before appeared in print, and which, were it 
not for his exertions, might have been lost to Irish 
biographical literature. 

This is notably illustrated in the case of that con- 
summate poet and ardent patriot, Bartholomew 
Dowling, whose life and labors are here published 
for the first time, and whose career must possess a 
special interest for those whose lot like his own was 
cast on the golden shores of the Pacific, whence, to 
use his own words, 

' ' That poet's song doth now go forth 
To many a distant shore, 
To fling around his land of birth 
A glory evermore. " 

The survivors of the patriotic Boys of '65 to '67 
will also read with especial pleasure the pages devoted 
to the biography of the gifted Dowling. 

It will bring back to their minds the fervent out- 
pourings of patriotic sentiment to which they lis- 
tened, in those hidden gatherings of more than a 
quarter of a century ago, by the banks of the Liflfey, 
the Blackwater or the Shannon. 

As in a dream they will listen, once again, to a 
deep- toned voice singing the glories of ''The Brigade 



Xll. INTRODUCTION. 

at Fontenoy," whilst a John Boyle O'Reilly or an 
Edmund 'Donovan will give ghostly approval to 
the author of the soul-stirring strains: 

*' By our camp fires rose a murmur 

At the dawning of the day, 
And the tread of many footsteps, 

Spoke the advent of the fray. " 

Another particularly interesting and most valuable 
feature of the volume is the publication, also for the 
first time, of the portrait of the versatile and sub- 
limely-endowed Richard D'Alton Williams. The 
reverend biographer has aimed to present as fully as 
possible the distinguishing traits of this fondly-re- 
membered poet, and that he has succeeded, is amply 
shown by the fascinating sketch in which he pictures 
the genius and virtue of him who wrote — 

" When 1 slumber in the gloom 
Of a nameless foreign tomb 
By a distant ocean's boom. " 

Happily, the anticipations of the exile poet were 
not long fulfilled. His tomb, as we are so beautifully 
informed, was not allowed to remain nameless. All 
praise to the noble-hearted soldiers who accomplished 
the chivalrous and patriotic duty of honoring the last 
resting place of Richard D'Alton Williams. ' 

The most liberal support should be ungrudgingly 
given to those who compile and preserve the " mate- 
rials for a true and complete history of Ireland," and 
it is therefore cordially hoped that such support and 
patronage may be freely extended to Irish Poets 
AND Novelists. ^ t> t> 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Richard D'Alton Williams — 

Page. 

Biography 1 

The Munster War Song 3 

Sister of Charity 5 

The Dying Girl 8 

* Adieu to Innisfail 12 

The Patriot Brave 16 

God Bless the Brave (McGee) 18 

Dies Irae 19 

Kathleen 24 

The Pass of Plumes 25 

The Extermination 29 

Bartholomew Dowling — 

Portrait 30 

Memoir 31 

Theodore Korner 37 

Prayer During Battle 39 

Death Song of the Viking 44 

The Brigade at Fontenoy 45 

Hymn of the Imperial Guard 48 

Hurrah for the Next that Di es 50 

The Foreign Shamrock 52 

Odors 53 

Sarsfield's Sortie 54 

The Vision of King Brian 57 

In Vain 60 

Song of the '82 Club 61 

Launching ' ' La Gloire " 62 

The Capture of Paris 64 

(xiii.) 



Xiv. CONTENTS. 

Fage. 

The Song of the Cossack QQ 

The Midnight Watch 68 

The Assault on Limerick 70 

A Reminiscence of the Mines 72 

The Relief of Lucknow 75 

Mort Sur Champs D'Honneur 77 

John Banim— 

Biographical Sketch 79 

Portrait 80 

Advice to Young Writers 89 

Call from Home 91 

Names of his Principal Works * 96 

Jeffrey's Opinion of Soggarth Aroon 97 

He said that He was not Our Brother 99 

Aileen 100 

The Irish Maiden's Song 102 

Rev. C, p. Meehan — 

Biographical Sketch 103 

Boyhood's Years ... 103 

Portrait 104 

Defence of Mangan 105 

Leo's Tribute to Father Meehan 106 

The Patriot's Wife Ill 

Hearts that are Great Beat never Loud 116 

The Fall of the Leaves 118 

The Battle of Benburb 121 

Fitz-James O'Brien— 

Biographical Sketch ' 125 

Portrait 126 

Loch Ine 127 

Kane 130 

Bacchus 134 

Irish Castles 137 



contents. xv. 

Gekald Griffin — 

Page. 

Biographical Sketch 139 

Portrait 140 

Adare 144 

Old Times 146 

Why Has my Soul been Given ? 150 

O'Brazil, the Isle of the Blest 15-5 

'T is, it is the Shannon Stream 157 

The Bridal of Malahide 159 

When Filled with Thoughts 162 

For I am Desolate 163 

My Mary of the Curling Hair 164 

Gille Ma Chree 165 

A Place in thy Memory, Dearest 168 

Lines to a Sea Gull 169 

Monody on Griffin (McGee) 170 

Rev. Chas. Wolfe — 

Biographical Sketch 173 

At the Grave of Rev. C. Wolfe (Mrs. Piatt) 177 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 178 

If I had Thought 179 

Oh! Say not That 181 

Go! Forget Me 182 

Charles Graham Halpine — 

Biographical Sketch 183 

The Fall of Richmond 189 

Raising a Monument to the Irish Legion 191 

Janette's Hair 195 

Not a Star from the Flag shall Fade 197 

Stamping Out 198 

The Flaunting Lie 200 

Sambo's Right to be Kilt 201 

James Joseph Callanan — 

Biographical Sketch 203 

Portrait 204 



XVI. CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Spirit of Song .208 

Dirge of O'Sullivan Beare 212 

Gougane Barra 217 

The Virgin Mary's Bank 219 

The Star of Heaven 220 

Say, My Brown Drimin , 221 

Lament for Ireland 222 

Address to Greece 224 

The Mother of the Macehabees 226 

Lines to the Blessed Sacrament 228 

The Exile's Farewell 230 

Lines to Erin 231 

Stanzas 231 

A Lay of Mizen Head 232 

Rev. Michael Mullin — 

Biographical Sketch 235 

Portrait 236 

Arthur McCoy 237 

Lament for the Celtic Tongue 244 

Robert Dwyer Joyce — 

Biographical Sketch 247 

Portrait 248 

1 am Suffering, and I Know 251 

Hogan's Tribute 254 

The Palace Garden 257 

The Blacksmith of Limerick 260 

Sweet GlengarifFs Water " 263 

The Green and the Gold • 264 

The Rapparee's Horse and Sword 265 

The Cailin Rue 266 

The Sack of Dunbuie 267 

Sarsfield's Ride; The Ambush of Sliav Bloom 272 

James Clarence Mangan — 

Portrait 280 

Biographical Sketch 281 



CONTENTS. xvii. 

Page. 

And Then No More 283 

The Nameless One 284 

The Ideal .289 

Irish National Hymn 289 

The Dying Flower 290 

Hig'hway for Freedom 296 

The Woman of Three Cows 297 

The Fair Hills of Erie, O! 300 

Soul and Country 301 

Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red Hand 303 

* Lament for Banba 305 

The Time of the Barmecides 307 

The Poet's Preaching 309 

To Joseph Brennan 311 

Ireland Under Irish Rule 313 

O Maria, Regina Misericordiae 314 

Rev. a. J. Ryan — 

Biographical Sketch 317 

Portrait 318 

Longfellow to Father Ryan . 318 

In Memory of my Brother 323 

Their Story Runneth Thus 326 

The Conquered Banner 330 

Lines— 1875 332 

Erin's Flag 334 

Song of the Mystic = 336 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee — 

Memoir 339 

Portrait 340 

Parting from Ireland 344 

Wishing Cap 351 

The Homeward Bound 353 

The Celtic Cross 354 

Salutation to the Celts 356 

The Exile's Request 357 



XVlll. CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The Living and Dead 358 

To a Friend in Australia 359 

Consolation 360 

The Exile's Devotion 361 

The Dying Celt to his American Son 363 

The Virgin Mary's Knight 364 

Amergin's Anthem 366 

The Celts 368 

The Irish Wife 370 

If Will had Wings 371 

A Legend of St. Patrick 372 

Samuel Lover — 

Biography 375 

Portrait 376 

My Mountain Home 376 

In Honor of Moore 378 

Handy Andy 384 

The Four-Leaved Shamrock 391 

Rory O'More 394 

Molly Bawn 394 

Angel's Whisper 395 

The Fairy Boy 396 

Rev. Francis Mahony (Father Prout) — 

Memoir 397 

Portrait 398 

In Pulchram Lactiferam ; 405 

The Bells of Shandon 407 

The Groves of Blarney ' 410 

Ode to Chateaubriand 412 

Don Ignatio Loyola's Vigil 415 

The Tri-Color 416 

Pray for Me 418 

Battle of Lepanto 419 

Ode to the Wig of Boscovich 421 

Michael Angelo's Farewell 422 

The Death of Father Prout 423 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Page. 

Adare Gnffin 144 

Address to Greece Callanan 224 

Adieu to Innisfail Williams 12 

Advice to Young Writers Banim 89 

Aileen Banim 100 

Amergin's Anthem McOee 366 

Angel's Whisper Lover 395 

And Then No More Mangan 283 

A Place in thy Memory Gri^n 168 

Arthur McCoy Meehan 237 

Assault on Limerick, The Bowling 70 

At the Grave of Wolfe Piatt 177 

Bacchus O'Brien 134 

Battle of Benburb, The Meehan 121 

Battle of Lepanto Mahony 419 

Bells of Shandon Mahony 407 

Blacksmith of Limerick, The Joyce 260 

Boyhood's Years Meehan 103 

Bridal of Malahide, The Griffin 159 

Brigade at Fontenoy , The Bowling 45 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The Wolfe 178 

Cailin Rue, The Joyce 266 

Cahil Mor of the Wine-Red Hand Mangan 303 

Call from Home Banim 91 

Capture of Paris, The Bowling 64 

Celtic Cross, The ^cOee 368 

Conquered Banner, The Ryan 330 

Consolation McGee 360 

(xix.) 



XX. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 

Pape. 

Death of Father Prout MacCarthy 423 

Death Song of the Viking Bowling 44 

Defence of Mangan Meehan 105 

Dies Irae Williams 19 

Dirge of O'Sullivan Beare C'allanan 212 

Don Ignatio Loyola Mahony 415 

Dying Celt, The McGee 363 

Dying Flower, The Mangan 290 

Dying Girl, The Williams 8 

Erin's Flag Byan 334 

Exile's Devotion, The McGee 361 

Exile's Farewell, The Callanan 230 

Exile's Request, The McGee 357 

Extermination, The Williams 29 

Fair Hills of Erie, O ! The Mangan 300 

Fairy Boy, The Lover 396 

Fall of the Leaves, The Meehan 118 

Fall of Richmond, The Halpine 189 

Flaunting Lie, The HaJpine 200 

Foreign Shamrock, The Bowling.. ..... 52 

For I am Desolate Griffin 163 

Four-Leaved Shamrock Lover 391 

Gille Machree Griffin 165 

God Bless the Brave McGee 18 

Go! Forget Me Wolfe . ; 182 

Gougane Barra Callanan 217 

Green and Gold, The Joyces 264 

Groves of Blarney, The Mahony 410 

Handy Andy Lover 384 

Hearts that are Great Beat never Loud. . ..Meehan 116 

He said that He was not our Brother Banim 99 

Highway for Freedom Mangan 296 

Hogan's Tribute Joyce 254 

Homeward Bound, The McGee 353 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. xxi. 

Page. 

Hurrah for the Next that Dies Bowling 50 

Hymn of the Imperial Guard Dowling 48 

I am Suffering and I Know Joyce 251 

Ideal, the Mangan 289 

If I had Thought Wolfe 179 

If Will had Wings McGee 371 

In Honor of Moore Lover 378 

In Memory of my Brother Ryan 323 

In Pulehram Lactif eram Mahony 405 

In Vain Dowling 60 

Ireland Under Irish Rule Mangan 313 

Irish Castles O'Brien 137 

Irish Maiden's Song, The Banim 102 

Irish National Hymn Mangan 289 

Janette's Hair Halpine 195 

Jeffrey's Opinion of Soggarth Aroon Banim 97 

Joseph Brennan, To. . . Mangan 311 

Kane O'Brien 130 

Kathleen Williams 24 

Lament for Banba Mangan 805 

Lament for the Celtic Tongue Mullin 244 

Lament for Ireland Callanan 222 

Launching ' ' La Gloire " Dowling 62 

Lay of Mizen Head, A Callanan 372 

Legend of St. Patrick, A McGee 372 

Leo's Tribute to Father Meehan 106 

Lines— 1875 Byan 332 

Lines to Erin Callanan 231 

Lines to the Blessed Sacrament Callanan 228 

Lines to a Sea Gull Griffin 169 

Living and Dead, The 3IcGee 358 

Loch ine O'Brien 127 

Longfellow to Father Ryan 318 



XXll. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 

Page. 

Michael Angelo's Farewell Mahony 422 

Midnight Watch, The Dowling 68 

Molly Bawn Lover 394 

Monody on Griffin McGee 170 

Mort Sur Champ d'Honneur Dowling 77 

Mother of the Macchabees, The Callanan 226 

Munster War Song, The Williams 3 

My Irish Wife McGee 370 

My Mary of the Curling Hair Oriffin 16^ 

My Mountain Home Lover 37G 

Nameless One, The Mangan 284 

Names of His Principal Works Banim 96 

Not a Star from the Flag Shall Fade Ealpine 197 

O'Brazil, the Isle of the Blest Griffin 155 

Ode to Chateaubriand Mahony 412 

Ode to the Wig of Father Boscovich Mahony . 421 

Odors Bowling 53 

Oh! Say not That Wolfe 181 

Old Times Griffin 146 

O Maria, Regina Misericordiae Siangan 314 

O Say, My Brown Drimin Callanan 221 

Palace Garden, The Joyce 257 

Parting from Ireland McGee 344 

Pass of Plumes Williams 25 

Patriot Brave, The Williams 16 

Patriot's Wife, The Meehan Ill 

Poet's Preaching Mangan 309 

Prayer During Battle Dowling 39 

Pray for Me Mahony 418 

Raising a Monument to the Irish Legion . Ealpine 191 

Rapparee's Horse and Sword, The Joyce 265 

Relief of Lucknow Dowling 75 

Reminiscence of the Mines, A Doxoling 72 

Rory O'More Lover 393 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XXIU. 

Page. 

Sack of Dunbuie Joyce 267 

. Salutation to the Celts McGee 356 

Sambo's Right to be Kilt Halpxne.. 201 

Sarsiield's Ride; the Ambush of Sliav Bloom. Joyce 272 

Sarsfield's Sortie Bowling 54 

Sister of Charity , Williams 5 

Soggarth Aroon Banim 97 

Song of the Cossack, The Bowling 66 

Song of the '82 Club Bowling 61 

Song of the Mystic Byan 336 

Soul and Country Mangan 301 

Spirit of Song Callanan 208 

Stamping Out Halpine 198 

Stanzas Callanan 231 

Star of Heaven, The Callanan 220 

Sweet Glengariff 's Water Joyce 263 

Their Story Runneth Thus Ryan 326 

Theodore Korner Bowling 37 

Time of the Barmecides, The Mangan 307 

'Tis, It is the Shannon Stream Griffin 157 

To a Friend in Australia McGee .... . . 359 

Tri-color , The Mahony 416 

Virgin Mary's Bank, The Callanan 219 

Virgin Mary's Knight, The McGee 364 

Vision of King Brian, The Bowling 57 

When Filled with Thoughts Gri^ffin 162 

Why has my Soul been Given Griffin 150 

Wishing Cap " McGee 351 

Woman of Three Cows, The Mangan 297 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Page. 

Banim , John 80 

Callanan, James Joseph 204 

Dowling, Bartholomew 31 

Griffin, Gerald 140 

Halpine, C. G 183 

Joyce, B. D 248 

Lover, Samuel 379 

Mahony , Francis (Rev.) 398 

Mangan. J. C 281 

Meehan, C. P. (Rev.) 104 

McGee, T. D 340 

Mullin, Michael (Rev.) 236 

O'Brien, Fitz-James 126 

Ryan, A. J. (Rev.} 318 

Williams, R. D 1 

(xxiv.) 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, 

POET, PHYSICIAN AND PROFESSOR. 



^^SpHILE this singer, whose sweet songs have 
^iPllp charmed two generations of readers at 
home and abroad, doth 

Slumber in the gloom 

Of a nameless, foreign tomb, 

Innisfail keeps his memory fresh and green. 

The life's history of every man who devotes his 
days to literary pursuits is easily told; and that of 
Richard D'Alton Williams is no exception to this 
general rule. Born in the city of Dublin, October 
8th, 1822, the future bard was taken at a very early 
age to Grenanstown, in the County Tipperary, where 
he spent his boyhood years. He was of a shy, sen- 
sitive disposition, fond of poetry, fairy lore, and of 
solitary rambles by the limpid rills and sombre 
clefts that abound in the vicinity of the "Devil's 
Bit." His poetic imagination grew strong and vivid 
among the gorges of Tipperary mountains, where his 
youthful footsteps often disturbed the eagles from 
their lofty perches as his brave little heart bounded 
with delight to watch them sailing gracefully across 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



the adjacent chasms till they vanished amid the 
gray rocks of some distant peak. When tired of the 
wild " Camailte's darkling mountains/' he descended 
to the glens, where his fanciful spirit peopled every 
gorge and grove with elfin crowds. 

About the period that this retiring, timid country 
lad was bordering on his teens the Irish Nation was 
nearing a series of memorable events in the history 
of her people. Three D's — Davis, Dillon and Duffy 
— representing Mallow, Mayo and Monaghan, met 
about this time in Phoenix Park, Dublin, and estab- 
lished a newspaper that was destined to become the 
exponent of Ireland's national hopes and aspirations. 

Davis was one of the first poetical contributors to 
the columns of this national organ, which sent forth 
its initial number on the 15th of October, 1842, and 
startled the enemies of Irish freedom. 

In January, 1843, D'Alton Williams' first poem 
appeared in the columns of that journal over the nom 
dejyfume of " Shamrock." Thenceforth " Shamrock " 
was a welcome name in the office of the Nation, and 
an assurance to the editor that whatever accompanied 
it was worthy of insertion. Here is what the Nation 
had to say of " Shamrock's " first effort, some time 
after Williams had been " borne, an exile on the 
deep," far from his native land: 

' ' Williams was not among the founders of that memorable 
school of national poetiy w^hich sprang up in '42 and '4.S, but 



RICHARD D ALTON WILLIAMS. 3 

he was its second recruit. Early in the first year of the Nation 
a poem reached us from Carlow College which may take its 
place in literary history with the boyish pastorals of Pope, and 
the boyish ballads of Chatterton. It was scrawled in the angu- 
lar, uncertain hand of a student, and scarcely invited an exam- 
ination. But it proved to be a ballad of surpassing vigor, full 
of new and daring imagery, which broke out like a tide of lava 
among the faded flowers and tarnished tinsel of minor poetry. 
And the vigor seems to be held in check by a firm and culti- 
vated judgment; there was not a single flight which Jefh-ey 
would have called extravagant, or a metre to which Pope could 
object. This was the ' Munster War Song. ' It was Williams' 
first poem in the Nation. A couple of months before, Davis had 
written his first poem, 'The Lament of Owen Roe.' Memo- 
rable beginnings, and beginnings of more than a new race of 
Irish bards. At this time, Meagher was a student at Stony- 
hurst, O'Brien a Parliamentary Liberal, Mitchel a provincial 
attorney, and McGee an American editor. McNevin had never 
been across the threshold of the Nation office, either in person or 
by contribution; nor had MacCarthy, Mr. Walsh, nor De Jean; 
nor had any two of these young men ever met. But a new 
banner had been set up, and here were trumpet-notes sufficient 
to summon a host about it." 

The title of this martial poem is: 

THE MUNSTER WAR SONG. 

Can the depths of the ocean afford you no graves. 
That you come thus to perish afar o'er the waves — 
To redden and swell the wild torrents that flow 
Through the valleys of vengeance, the dark Aherlow? 



4 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The sunburst that shuiibered, embalmed in our tears, 
Tipperary ! shall wave o'er thy tall mountaineers ! 
And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and spear, 
Wliile one tyrant remains to forge manacles here. 

The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain 
With a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping mane; 
His gallant breast laboi-s, and glare his wild eyes! 
He plunges in torture, falls, shivers and dies. 

Let the trumpets ring triumph ! the tyrant is slain ! 
He reels o'er his charger, deep-pierced thro' the brain; 
And his myriads are flying like leaves on the gale ; 
But who shall escape from our hills with the tale ? 

For the arrows of vengeance are showering like rain. 
And choke the strong rivers with islands of slain, 
Till the waves, " lordly Shannon," all crimsonly flow. 
Like the billows of hell, with the blood of the foe. 

While this stirring war song was fresh in the 
minds of his countrj^men, the author went up to 
Dublin, and began his career as a medical student 
in St. Vincent's Hospital, Stephen's Green. This 
institution, under the care of the good Sisters of 
Charit}^ was to the Irish metropolis ' at that time 
what St. Mary's Hospital is at present to our own 
City of San Francisco — the best managed hospital in 
all the land. Here young Williams gave himself up 
to the study of the healing art under Dr. Bellingham, 
who had many good things to say afterwards of his 
promising pupil when summoned to testify in the 



EICHARD D ALTON WILLIAMS. 5 

State Trials as to the character of the young medico. 
It was during his incumbency at St. Vincent's, where 
he saw with his own eyes the heroic deeds of the 
Sisters, that he penned the following oft-quoted lines 
on the 

SISTER OF CHARITY. 

Sister of Charity, gentle and dutiful, 

Loving as Seraphim, tender and mild, 
In humbleness strong and in purity beautiful, 

In spirit heroic, in manners a child; 
Ever thy love, like an angel, reposes 

With hovering wings o'er the sufferer here. 
Till the arrows of death are half hidden in roses. 

And hope, speaking prophecy, smiles on the bier. 
When life like a vapor is slowly retiring, 

As clouds in the dawning to heaven uprolled. 
Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him, expiring. 

And the cross on thy bosom his last looks behold. 
And, oh ! as the Spouse to thy words of love listens. 

What hundredfold blessings descend on thee then ! 
Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright iris glistens, 

And returns to the lilies more richly again. 

Sister of Charity ! child of the Holiest ! 

Oh ! for thy loving soul, ardent as pure ! 
Mother of orphans and friend of the lowliest ! 

Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor ! 
The embrace of Godhead so plainly enfolds thee, 

Sanctity's halo so shrines thee around, 
Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee, 

Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the ground. 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Dim is the fiie of the sunniest blushes, 

Burning the breast of the maidenly rose , 
To the exquisite bloom that thy pale beauty flushes 

When the incense ascends and the sanctuaiy glows; 
And the music that seems heaven's language is pealing, 

Adoration has bowed him in silence and sighs, 
And man, intermingled with angels, is feeling 

The passionless rapture that comes from the skies. 
Oh ! that this heart, whose unspeakable treasure 

Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay. 
Like thine, unallured by the phantom of pleasure, 

Could rend every earthly affection away ! 
And yet, in thy presence, the billows subsiding, 

Obey the strong effort of reason and will ; 
And my soul, in her pristine tranquility gliding, 

Is calm as when God bade the ocean be still ! 
Thy soothing, how gentle ! thy pity, how tender ! 

Choir-music thy voice is, thy step angel-grace. 
And thy union with Deity shines in a splendor — 

Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face. 
When the frail chains are broken, a captive that bound thee 

Afar from thy home in the prison of clay. 
Bride of the Lamb ! and Earth's shadow around thee 

Disperse in the blaze of eternity's day; - 
Still mindful, as now, of the sufferer's story 

Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they roll, 
Intervene, as a cloud, between us and His glory. 

And shield from his lightnings the shuddering soul; 
And mild as the moonbeams in autumn descending. 

That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall fall. 
While He hears, with the wail of the penitent blending. 

Thy prayer, holy daughter of Vincent de Paul. 



KICHARD D ALTON WILIJAMS. 7 

In the early part of 1848 Kevin Izod O'Doherty 
and D'Alton Williams founded and edited the Irish 
Tribune. The first number issued forth on June 10th 
of that eventful year. Scarcely six weeks had elapsed 
when the Tribune's career was brought to a stop by 
the British Government, and the editors were locked 
up under the pretense that they had intended to 
levy war against Her Majesty, Victoria, through the 
columns of a newspaper. The young bard in his 
new character of traverser was defended by three 
men who have since become famous in the history of 
their countr}^ — Samuel Ferguson, Colman O'Loghlen 
and John O'Hagan. 

To the charges of infidelity preferred against the 
patriotic poet, Ferguson answered thus: 

" He is not an infidel With a charity becoming his Chris- 
tianity he prays that God may forgive his enemies that abomi- 
nable slander. Gentlemen, I am not a member of that ancient 
and venerable Church within whose pale my client seeks for sal- 
vation and has found tranquility and contentment in affliction. 
But I would be unworthy the noble and generous Protestant 
faith which I profess, if I could withhold my admiration from 
the services which I am instructed he has rendei'ed to the cause 
of religion and of charity, not only by his personal exertions in 
distributing the beneficence of one of the best and most useful 
charitable institutions existing in our city, but also by his pen 
in embodying the purest aspirations of religion in sublime and 
beautiful poetry When I speak of the services he has ren- 
dered religion by his poetry, allow me also to say that he has 



« IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

also rendei'ed sei'vices to the cause of patriotism and of humanity 
by it; and permit me to use the privilege of a long apprentice- 
ship in those pursuits by saying that, in my own humble judg- 
ment, after our own poet Moore, the first living poet of Ii-eland 
is the gentleman who now stands an-aigned at the bar." 

Such is the high estimate put on the budding 
genius of Richard D'Alton Williams by one who was 
a poet himself of very high rank, and whose name 
shines to-day among the foremost literary men oj 
his native land. 

During the progress of his trial many kind things 
were said of Mr. Williams; and although the jury 
were sent back twice to reconsider their decision in 
this case, they finally returned with a verdict oi 
" not guilty." The poet was set at lil)erty, despite 
the efforts of the Crown to convict him. 

It Avas during his apprenticeship in the hospital 
conducted by the heroic Sisters of Charity that he 
wrote his universally admired little poem on 

THE DYING GIRL. 



From a Munster vale they brought her 

From the pure and balmy air, 
An Ormond peasant's daughter, 

With blue eyes and golden hair. 
They brought her to the city, 

And she faded slowly there — 
Consumption has no pity 

For blue eyes and golden hair. 



KICHAED D ALTON WILLIAMS. 

When I saw her first reclining, 

Her lips were moved in pray'r, 
And the setting sun was shining 

On her loosened golden hair. 
Wlien our kindly glances met her 

Deadly brilliant was her eye 
And she said that she was better, 

While we knew^ that she must die. 

She speaks of Munster valleys, 

The pattern, dance and fair, 
And her thin hand feebly dallies 

With her scattered golden hair. 
When silently we listened 

To her breath with quiet care , 
Her eyes with wonder glistened 

And she asked us what w^as there ? 

The poor thing smiled to ask it, 

And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
Like gems within a basket, 

A string of pearlets rare; 
We said that w'e were trying. 

By the gushing of her blood, 
And the time she took in sighing, 

To know^ if she were good. 

Well, she smiled and chatted gaily; 

Though w^e saw" in mute despair 
The hectic brighten daily 

And the death-dew on her hair. 



10 . IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And oft, her wasted lingers 

Beating time upon the bed, 
O'er some old tune she lingei-s, 

And she bows her golden head. 

At length the harp is broken, 

And the spirit in its strings, 
As the last decree is spoken, 

To its source exulting snrings. 
Descending swiftly from the skies 

Her guardian angel came : 
He sti'uck God's lightning from her eyes, 

And bore Him back the flame. 

Before the sun had risen 

Through the lark-loved morning air. 
Her young soul left its prison , 

Undefiled by sin or care. 
I stood beside the couch in tears, 

Where pale and calm she slept. 
And though I've gazed on death for years 

I blush not that I wept. 
I checked with effort pity's sighs. 

And left the matron there 
To close the curtains of her eyes 

And bind her golden hair. 

Though gifted like Edgar Allen Poe, Williams had 
none of Poe's weaknesses or failings. He was sober, 
sedate, benevolent and fervently pious. In fact, it 
has been said of him that " he was much more ready 
to visit the sick and dying than to join the not 



EICHAKD d' ALTON WILLIAMS; U 

unfrequent symposia of his literary and political 
friends." 

He was one of the most active and unselfish mem- 
bers of the Society of St Vincent de Paul. The 
duties assigned to him in connection with this 
Society were always faithfully and carefully per- 
formed. It is related by personal acquaintances that 
in making his rounds among the sick and needy the 
young physician left his overcoat behind him more 
than once to cover some shivering creature. Refer- 
ence is made to this Society in the following letter 
written to the late Denis Florence MacCarthy whose 
nam de plume in those early days was " Desmond " • 

" My Dear Desmond: I send you the standing desk and hope 
that you may make countless standing jokes and Irish ballads 
upon it. The bearer is visited by our Society and deal.s in 
Punch and other periodicals, on which he has some small pi-ofit. 
He supplies me , and I recommend you to get your Punch through 
his hands. If you are here this evening at eight o'clock; you 
shall have a cup of coffee on our way to Westland Row. With 
best respects to Mr. MacCarthy and the ladies, I am, 

" Sincerely yours, 

" R. D. Williams. 

"March 26, 1847." 

Though acquitted of the charge preferred against 
him by the Government, Williams suffered by his 
imprisonment in Newgate. But he suffered in 
silence, and like a great man, never whined. 



12 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The failure of the 'Forty-Eight movement depressed 
the spirits of young Williams very much, and left 
him without any occupation for a time. After a 
while, however, he went over to Scotland, where he 
stood a successful examination for a medical diploma 
Returning to his native city, he practiced his pro- 
fession with considerable success. But the failure 
of all his schemes for nationhood cast a gloom over 
his paths, and he soon resolved to try his fortune 
in a new land. 

Early in the summer of 1851 he bade adieu to Erin, 
and sailed away, never to return. His thoughts on 
that occasion are feelingly expressed in that pathetic 
little poem: 

ADIEU, TO INNISFAIL. 

Adieu ! the snowy sail 
Swells her bosom to the gale 
And our bark from Innisfail 

Bounds away. 
Wliile we gaze upon the shore ■ ^ 
That we never shall see more, 
And the blinding tears flow o'er, 

We pray: — 

Mavourneen, be thou longf 
In peace the queen of song — 
In battle proud and strong 

As the sea. 



RICHARD D'aLTON WILLIAMS. 13 

Be saints thine offspring still, 
True heroes guard each hill, 
And harps by every rill 
Sound free. 

Though round her Indian bowers 
The hand of nature showers 
The brighest, blooming flowers 

Of our sphere; 
Yet not the richest rose 
In an alien clime that blows 
Like the briar at home that grows 

Is dear. 

Though glowing hearts may be 
In soft vales beyond the sea, 
Yet ever, gramachree! 

ShaU I wail 
For the hearts of love I leave, 
In the dreaiy hours of eve, 
On thy stormy shores to grieve, 

Innisfail. 

But mem'^y o'er the deep 
On her dewy wing shall sweep 
When in midnight hours I weep 

O'er thy wrongs; 
And bring me steeped in tears. 
The dead flowers of other years, 
And waft unto my eare 

Home's songs. 



14 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

When I slumber in the gloom 
Of a nameless, foreign tomb, 
By a distant ocean's boom 

Innisf ail ! 
Around thy em'rald shore 
May the clasping sea adore 
And each wave in thunder roar, 

"All hail!" 

And when the final sigh 
Shall bear my soul on high. 
And on chainless wings I fly 

Through the blue, 
Earth's latest thought shall be , 
As I soar above the sea, 
" Green Erin, dear, to thee 

Adieu!" 

The exiled bard made his home in the New World, 

Nearer to the tropic's glow 

than most of his countrymen. Poet-like, he sought 
the sunny South, and for a considerable time occupied 
the chair of Belles-Lettres in Spring- Hill College, 
Alabama. With his old friends, the Jesuits, who 
conducted this institution of learning, and in pur- 
suits so congenial to his tastes, he spent a few happy 
years. Marrying Miss Connolly, an estimable and 
highly-educated lady of New Orleans, about 1856, 
he moved to Thibodeaux, La., where he was to be 
found at the outhrealc of the late civil war, practicing 



RICHARD D'aLTON VvILLIAMS. 15 

medicine and writing for the local press. Here 
it was that death overtook him, on the 5th day of 
July, 1862, amid the clash of resounding arms. His 
grave in the Catholic Cemetery of that town was 
still red when two companies of the 8th Regiment, 
NeAV Hampshire Volunteers, came to camp in the 
vicinity. This regiment was chiefly made up of 
Irish-Americans, who, on hearing of the death of 
'' Shamrock," sought his final resting place on earth, 
and resolved to perpetuate his memory by a monu- 
ment befitting one so gifted and so good. 

The Captain of Company G, having collected 
among the soldiers sufficient money for this purpose, 
obtained leave of absence for a few da3's, and repair- 
ing to New Orleans, there, in his own language, he 

Purchased a stone of ptire Carrara marble, weighing one ton, 
with a pedestal of the same material. This was the best thing 
of the kind to be procured in the city at that time. Yet, 
though it has not the loftiness and grandeur of conception of 
the monument which should rise over the grave of an Irish 
patriot, it is elegant and chaste in design, and the best that 
war-worn soldiers could have done who were hourly expecting 
orders to move further into the State. In the center of the 
slab is an oak leaf enclosing a sprig of shamrock; and beneath 
is the following inscription: 



16 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

RICHAED D'ALTON WILLIAMS 

THE IRISH PATRIOT AND POET, 

Who died July 5th, 1862, aged 40 years, 

This stone was erected by his countiymen serving in 

Companies G and K, N. H. Volunteers, 

As a slight testimonial of their esteem 

For his unsullied Patriotism, and his exalted devotion 

To the cause of Irish Freedom. 

Such is the tribute of his grateful countrymen to 
the true poet and " unsullied patriot." It was a fit- 
ting tribute from the veteran victors of many a hard- 
fought field to the memory of one who sang such 
verses as 

THE PATRIOT BRAVE. 

I drink to the valiant who combat 

For freedom by mountain or wave; 
And may triumph attend like a shadow, 

The sword of the patriot brave ! 
Oh ! never was holier chalice 

Than this at our festivals crowned, 
The heroes of Morven, to pledge it. 

And gods of Valhalla float round. 
Hurrah for the patriot brave ! 

A health to the patriot brave ! 
And a curse and a blow be to liberty's foe, 

Whether tyrant or coward or knave. 



KICHAED d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 17 

Great spirits, who battled in old time 

For the freedom of Athens, descend! 
As low to the shadow of Brian 

In fond hero-worship we bend. 
From those that in far Alpine passes 

Saw Dathi struck down in his mail, 
To the last of our chief's gallow-glasses, 

The saffron-clad foes of the Pale. 
^ Let us drink to the patriot bi'ave ! 

Hurrah for the patriot brave ! 
But a curse and a blow be to liberty's foe, 

And more chains for ^he satisfied slave. 

O Liberty ! hearts that adore thee 

Pour out their best blood at thy shrine, 
As freely as gushes before thee 

This pui-ple libation of wine. 
For us, whether destined to triumph 

Or bleed as Leonidas bled, 
Crashed down by a forest of lances 

On mountains of foreigner dead, 
May we sleep with the patriot brave ! 

God prosper the patriot brave ! 
But may battle and woe hurry liberty's foe 

To a bloody and honorless grave. 

Having performed their work at the grave of 
" Shamrock," the Federal troops moved away to 
other quarters; but the graceful act of the Irish- 
American Volunteers still remains to point the hal- 

3 



18 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

lowed spot where all that is mortal of the bard min- 
gles with the mold of his adopted land. 

So much devotion to the memory of one who had 
labored for the cause of Irish freedom naturally 
elicited the admiration of many. The life-long friend 
of Williams, Thomas D'Arcy McGee, from his home 
in the Dominion of Canada, enshrined the touching 
incident in a poem of great power and beauty. It 
runs thus: 

God bless the brave ! the brave alone 

Were worthy to have done the deed; 
A soldier's hand has raised the stone, 
Another traced the lines men read, 
Another set the guardian rail 
Above thy minstrel — Innisfail ! 

A thousand years ago, ah! then 

Had such a harp in Erin ceased, 
His cairn had met the eyes of men 
By every passing hand increased. 

God bless the brave ! not yet the race 
Could coldly pass his dwelling place. 

Let it be told to old and young, 

At home, abroad, at fire, at fair, 
Let it be written, spoken, sung, 
Let it be sculptured, pictured fair, 

How the young braves stood, weeping, round 
Their exiled poet's ransomed mound. 



RICHARD d'aLTON WILLIAMS. 19 

How low^ly knelt and humbly prayed 

The lion-hearted brother band 
Around the monument they made 
For him who sang the Fatherland ! 

A scene of scenes, where gloiy 's shed 
Both on the living and the dead. 

Williams was not only a poet of rare gifts, but also 
a scholar of varied acquirements. In Carlow Col- 
lege he won a reputation for learning, and was 
excelled by few in his knowledge of the classic 
tongues. He read in the originals the Greek and 
Latin poets while yet a mere youth, and those 
models left by the ancients were not neglected in his 
maturer years. Good books were always his delight. 

Though sensitive and retiring in his nature, he 
made and held hosts of friends wherever he went. 
In college, where manly virtues unfailingly win the 
admiration of the students, he was a popular favorite 
with professors and pupils alike ; and the affectionate 
admiration which the many noble traits of his char- 
acter evoked followed him through every change of 
life to his Louisiana grave, where he awaits that 
av>^ful scene so vividly described in his translation of 

the 

DIES IRAE. 

Wo is the day of ire , 
Shrouding the earth in fire; 
Sybil's and David's lyre 
Dimly foretold it. 



20 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Strictly the guilty land, 
By the avenger scanned, 
Smitten, aghast shall stand 
Still, to behold it. 

Start from your trance profound 
Through the rent graves around, 
Hark ! the last trumpet's sound 

Dolorous clangor. 
Death sees in mute surprise 
Ashes to doom arise 
Dust unto God replies — 

God in his anger. 

Bring forth the judgment roll — 

Blazon aloud the whole 

Guilt of each trembling soul — 

Justice hath bidden. 
Then shall all hearts be known, 
Sin's abyss open thrown, 
Vengeance shall have her own, 

Naught shall be hidden. 

Oh , on that dreadful day " v 
What shall the sinner say 
When scarce the just shall stay 

Judgment securely ? 
Save me, tremendous King ! 
Who the saved soul dost bring 
Under Thy mercy's wing. 

Through thy grace purely. 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 21 

Jesus, remember 1 

Caused Thee to toil and die — 

Sin brought Thee from the sky — 

I am a sinner. 
Break my soul's bitter chain — 
Thou for her love wert slain — 
Gushed Thy heart's blood in vain, 

Saviour ! to win her ! 

Just Judge and strong, we pray, 
Ere the accusing day, 
From every stain of clay. 

Grant us remission. 
Guilty and sore in fear, 
I, clad in shame, appear — 
Yet — for Thy mercy hear. 

Lord, my petition: 

Who madest Maiy pure 
And the good thief secure 
Gavest me also sure 

Hope of Salvation; 
Though to my shrinking gaze 
Hell's everlasting blaze 
Glare through the judgment day's 

Dire desolation. 

Lamb, for the ransom slain! 
Then, mid Thy snowy train. 
At Thy right hand to reign. 
Place me forever: 



22 IRISH POETS AND ::OVELISTS: 

While, at Thy dread command, 
Those at Thy left who stand, 
Far from the chosen band, 

Lisfhtnincrs shall sever. 

Rings the last thunder shock- 
Earth's broken pillars rock — 
Down the accursed flock 

Numberless falling- 
Down to the fiery doom, 
Gulfed in hell's hopeless tomb, 
Shriek through the ghastly gloom, 

Horroi-s appalling. 

Contrite, in pale dismay. 
Lord! hear a sinner pray, 
On that tremendous day 

Spread Thy shield o'er him; 
Day of great anguish, when 
God, from the dust again. 
Summons us, guilty men. 

Wailing before Him. 

Clement Thou art, as just, 
Mercy, O God, on dust — 
In Thee alone we trust, 

Shelter and save us ' 
Wlien, on the day of dole. 
Death-bells of nations toll, 
Spare the immortal soul 

Thy spirit gave us. 

Williams was a man of more than medium height, 
with well-knit frame and face strongly marked with 



RICHARD d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 23 

the lines of thought. In youth he possessed a keen 
sense of humor and a disposition to look always on 
the " silver lining of the cloud." 

In head, heart and soul he was Irish, and his chief 
aim in life was to serve his native land. His earlier 
poems were written with that end in view, and not 
for fame. Having a great deal of serious business on 
hand, he always wrote in a hurry when the mood 
took him, and seldom waited to re-read or revise his 
copy. He did not, like Pope and Edmund Burke, 
write his compositions over and over several times, 
but left them as they came gushing from the heart, 
without a single touch of the linae labor. 

After the failure of the Young Irelanders his mind 
and disposition changed from gay to grave. The 
happy, humorous young rebel to British injustice in 
Ireland ever after seemed to mourn his blighted 
hopes. He did not thrive in exile. 

His last literary work was the " Song of the Irish- 
American Regiments," in which his old patriotic fer- 
vor seems to burn anew. Two months later and the 
hand that wrote this was stilled in death. 

Sleep well, Bard! too early from the field 

Of labor and of honor call'd away; 
Sleep like a hero, on your owm good shield, 

Beneath the Shamrock wreath'd about with bay; 
Not doubtful is thy place among the host, 

Whom fame and Erin love and mourn the most. 



24 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

KATHLEEN. 

My Kathleen, dearest! in truth or seeming 

No brighter vision e'er blessed mine eyes 
Than she for whom, in Elysian dreaming, 

Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs. 
Oh, Kathleen, fairest! if elfin splendor 

Hath ever broken my heart's repose, 
'Twas in the darkness, ere purely tender, 

Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose. 

Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are 
This passion-music, and each pulse's thrill — 

The flowers seem brighter, the stare diviner. 
And God and Nature more glorious still. 

I see around me new fountains gushing — 
More jewels spangle the robes of night; 

Strange hai-ps lesounding — fresh roses blushing- 
Young worlds emerging in purer light. 

No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover — 

Oh, give him shelter upon thy breast, 
And bid him swiftly, his long flight over. 

From heav'n drop into that love-built nest ! 
Like fairy flow'rets is Love, thou fearest, 

At once that springeth like mine from earth— 
"*Tis Friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest, 

But Love and Lightning have instant birth. 

The mirthful fancy and artless gesture — 
Hair black as tempest , and swan-like breast , 

More graceful folded in simple vesture 
Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest. 



RICPIARD d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 25 

Nor these, the varied and rare possession 

Love gave to conquer, are thine alone; 
But, oh! there crowns thee divine expression, 

As saints a halo, that's all thine own. 

Thou art, as poets in olden story- 
Have pictured woman before the fall — 

Her angel beauty's divinest glory — 

The pure soul shining, like God, through all. 

But, vainly, humblest of leaflets springing, 
I king the queenliest flower of Love: 

Thus soars the skylark, presumptuous singing 
The orient morning enthroned above. 

Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden, 

The minstrel's passion is pure as strong, 
Though, nature fated, his heart, love-laden 

Must break, or utter its woes in song. 
Farewell ! If never my soul may cherish 

The dreams that bade me to love aspire, 
By mem'ry's altar ! thou shalt not perish, 

Fii'st Irish pearl of my Irish lyre ! 

THE PASS OF PLUMES. 

[To the pompons preparations of the Earl of Essex, the results of his gov- 
ernment in Ireland formed a most lamentable sequel. Rarely, if ever, indeed, 
had there been witnessed, in any military expedition, a more wretched con- 
trast between the promises and performances of its leader, or a wider 
departure in the field from the plans settled in the Council. Provided with 
an army the largest that Ireland had ever witnessed on her shores, consisting 
of 20,000 foot and 2,000 horse, his obvious policy, and at first his purpose, 
was to march directly against Tyrone, nnd grapple at once with the strength 
of the Rebellion in its great source and centre, the North. Instead of pursu- 
ing this course of policy, at once the boldest and most safe, he squandered 
both time and reputation on a march of parade into Munster, and the sole 
result of hie mighty enterprise was the reduction of two castles and the feigned 



26 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

submiasion of three native Chiefs. When pnasing through Leinster, on his 
■way back to Dublin, he was much harassed by the O'Moores, who made an 
attack upon his rear-guard, in which many of his men and several of his 
officers were killed; and, among the few traditional records we have of his 
visit, it is told that, from the quantity of plumes of feathers of which his 
soldiers were despoiled, the place of actioz) long continued to be called the 
Pass of Plumes, — " Thus," says Moryson, iu describing the departure of 
Essex from Loudon, ' ' at the head of so strong an army as did ominate nothing 
but victory and triumphs, yet with a sunshine thunder happening (as Cam- 
den notes for an ominous ill token) this lord took his journey." — Moore's Ire- 
land, vol. iv., p. 112.] 

"Look out," said O'Moore to his clansmen, " afar 

Is yon white cloud, the herald of tempest or war! 

Hark ! know you the roll of the foreigners' drums ? 

By Heaven! Lord Essex in panoply comes. 

With corselet, and helmet, and gay bannerol, 

And the shields of the nobles with blazon and scroll; 

And, as snow on the larch in December appears, 

What a winter of plumes on that forest of spears ! 

To the clangor of trumpets and waving of flags, 

The clattering cavalry prance o'er the crags; 

And their plumes — By St. Kyran! false Saxon, ere night, 

You shall wish these fine feathers were wings for your flight. 

' ' Shall we leave all the blood and the gold of the Pale 

To be shed at Armagh and won by O'Neill ? 

Shall we yield to O'Ruark, to McGuire and O'Donnell, 

Brave chieftains of BrefFny, Fermanagh — Tyi'connell; 

Yon helmets, that ' Erick' thrice over would pay 

For the Sassenach heads they'll protect not to-day ? 

No! By red Mullaghmast, fieiy clansmen of Leix, 

Avenge your sires' blood on their murderers' race! 

Now, sept of O'Moore, fearless sons of the heather. 

Fling your scabbards away, and strike home and together! " 



RICHARD d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 27 

Then loudly the clang of commingled blows 

Upswell'd from the sounding lields, 
And the joy of a hundred trumps arose, 

And the clash of a thousand shields. 
And the long plumes danc'd and the falchions rung, 

And flash'd the whirl'd spear, 
And the furious barb through the wild war sprung, 

And trembled the earth with fear; 
The fatal bolts exulting fled, 

And hissed as they leap'd away; 
And the tortur'd steed on the red grass bled, 

Or died with a piercing neigh. 

I see their weapons crimson'd; I hear the mingled cries 

Of rage and pain and triumph, as they thundered to the skies. 

The Coolun'd kern rashes upon armor, knight and mace. 

And bone and brass are broken in his terrible embrace ! 

The coursers roll and struggle; and the riders, girt in steel. 

From their saddles, crush'd and cloven, to the purple heather 

reel, 
And shatter'd there, and trampled by the charger's iron hoof, 
The seething brain is bursting thro' the crashing helmet's roof. 
Joy! Heaven strikes for freedom! and Elizabeth's array, 
With her paramour to lead 'em, are sore beset to-day. 

Their heraldry and plumery, their coronets and mail. 
Are trampled on the battle field, or scatter'd on the gale! 
As the cavalry of ocean, the living billows bound, 
When lightnings leap above them and thunders clang around. 
And tempest-crested dazzlingly, caparison'd in spray, 
Tliey crush the black and broken rocks, with all their roots 
?-wav 



28 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

So charged the stormy chivahy of Erin in her ire — 

Their shock the roll of ocean, their swords electric fire. 

The J rose like banded billows that, when wintry tempests blow, 

The trembling shore, with stunning roar and dreadful wreck 

o'erflow. 
And where they burst tremendously, upon the bloody groun'. 
Both horee and man, from rear to van, like shiver'd barques 

went down. 
Leave your costly Milan hauberks, haughty nobles of the Pale, 
And your snowy ostrich feathers as a tribute to the Gael. 
Fling away gilt spur and trinket, in your huriy, knight and 

squire, 
They will make our virgins ornaments or decorate the lyre. 
Ho, Essex! how your vestal Queen will storm when she hears 
The " mere Irish" chased her minion and his twenty thousand 

spears. 

Go! tell the Koyal virgin that O'Moore, McHugh, O'Neill 
Will smite the faithless stranger while there 's steel in Innisfail. 
The blood you shed shall only serve more deep revenge to nuise, 
And our hatred be as lasting as the tyranny we curse. 
From age to age consuming, it shall blaze a quenchless fire, 
And the son shall thii-st and burn still more fiercely than his 

sire. 
By our sorrows, songs and battles — by our cromleachs, raths 

and tow'rs — 
By sword and chain, by all our slain — between your race and 

ours 
By naked glaives and yawning graves, and ceaseless teai-s and 

gore, 
Till battle's flood wash out in blood your footsteps from the 

shore ! 



EICHAED d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 29 

THE EXTERMINATION. 

Dominus pupillum et vidnnm suscipiet. — Ps. 145. 

When tyranny's pampered and purple-clad minions 
Drive forth the lone widow and orphan to die, 

Shall no angel of vengeance unfurl his red pinions, 
And, grasping sharp thunderbolts, rash from on high? 

" Pity! oh, pity! a little while spare me: 

My baby is sick — I am feeble and poor; 
In the cold winter blast, from the hut if you tear me. 

My lord, we must die on the desolate moor!" 

'Tis vain — for the despot replies but with laughter, 

While rudely his serfs thrust her forth on the wold; 
Her cabin is blazing from threshold to rafter. 

And she crawls o'er the mountain, sick, weeping and cold. 
Her thinly -clad child on the stormy hill shivers — 

The thunders are pealing dread anthems around — 
Loud roar in their anger the tempest-lashed rivers — 

And the loosened rocks down with the wild torrent bound. 

Vainly she tries in her bosom to cherish 

Her sick infant boy, 'mid the horrors around, 
Till faint and despairing, she sees her babe perish — 

Then, lifeless she sinks on the snow-covered ground. 
Though the children of Ammon, with trumpets and psalters, 

To devils poured torrents of innocents' gore, 
Let them blush from deep hell at the far redder altars 

Where the death-dealing tyrants of Ireland adore ! 
But, for Erin's life-current, thro' long ages flowing, 

Dark demons that pierce her, you yet shall atone; 
Even now the volcano beneath you is glowing, 

And the Moloch of tyranny reels on the throne. 









" The trumpet blast has sounded 

Our footmen to array, 
The willing steed has bounded 

Impatient for the fray." — P. 46. 




BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING 

AUTHOR OF "the BRIGADE AT FONTENOY.' 




sHE subjoined article on Mr. Dowling was 
written, at our request, by a gentleman who 
for more than twenty, years enjoyed the personal 
friendship of the deceased poet: 

" The author of that beautiful ballad, ' The Brigade at Fon- 
tenoy,' was a native of Listowel, County Kerry, Ireland. While 
Bartholomew Dowling was yet a boy, his pax'ents emigrated to 
Canada, where they remained for some yeare, and where the 
future poet and patriot received a part of his education. Re- 
turning to Ireland, after the death of the father, the family 
settled in Limerick. This circumstance has given, unjustly, to 
the ' City of the Violated Treaty ' the honor of Mr. Dowling's 
birth. His parents were, however, from the Kingdom of 
Kerry, and there he himself was born about the year 1823, as 
near as I can judge. 

" In a review of a recent publication, ' A Chaplet of Verse 
bj^ California Catholic Writers,' the Boston Pilot desired to get 
information regarding the subject of this sketch. My attention 
has also been called to a similar inquiry in the Irish Monthly, 
published in Dublin by Rev. Mathew Russell, who takes an 
active interest in eveiything that concerns the literature of his 
native land. In his brief mention the reverend editor gives 
Mr. Dowling a very high rank in the brilliant galaxy of gifted 
young Irishmen who threw themselves and their fortunes, heart 

(31) 



32 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

and soul, into the movement inaugurated by the Dublin Nation, 
and which culminated in the disaster of 1848, scattering their 
hopes and making voluntaiy exiles of those who escaped penal 
servitude at the hands of the Government they had labored to 
overthrow. 

" The writer of this brief biography was then a boy, and 
can now go back in vivid memory to the monster meetings of 
the Repeal Association, and again almost feel with what eager- 
ness he looked forward to the weekly issue of the Dublin Nation 
and the alacrity with which he read its lessons of Nationality 
in prose and verse. Standing to-day on this peaceful shore, far 
from the scenes of so many ardent aspirations and unrealized 
hopes, after the flight of many years — years that have changed 
the sand dunes of San Francisco into a beautiful city of won- 
derful resources and glorious energy — as I turn over the pages 
of Ireland's ballad poetry, it is with the feelings of one who 
wanders through a cemeteiy , reading the names of dead friends. 

' ' Through the kind courtesy of one who is himself a gifted 
poet as well as a practical patriot, I am afforded this opportunity 
of supplying the information asked for by Father Russell and 
the distinguished editor of the Pilot, said doing my part towards 
resuscitating the memory of a good and gifted man who was 
very dear to me. 

" The writer of whom I treat here had the cares and respon- 
sibilities of life shifted on to his shoulders, while yet a mere 
youth, by the death of his father; and well did he sustain the 
burden, cheering and comforting his mother to the day of her 
death, and aiding his younger brothers and a sister till time 
fitted them for the battle of life. The lives of the good are 
generally devoid of sensation, and he enjoyed an average share 
of such blessings. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 33 

" He did not follow literature as a profession. The best 
years of his life were devoted to mercantile pursuits, and his 
contributions to current literature, in prose or verse, were mostly 
published anonymously, without any effort at preservation; and 
such as are at our disposal have been gathered from many 
sources with considerable labor, 

" He came to California in the summer of 1852, and, for a 
time, engaged in mining in the northern counties. Not finding 
this work congenial, he took to farrainsf in Contra Costa, where 
he built himself a home and shared the hospitality of his board 
with John Mitchel, General James Shields and Terence Bellew 
McManus, while they were sojourning on the ' Golden Slopes.' 

" In 1858 he became editor of the San Francisco Monitor, at 
a time when his health was broken down; but yet his writings 
displayed a vigor and versatility that gave evidence of what he 
was capable of accomplishing under more favorable circum- 
stances. In this position his gentlemanly and courteous style 
left no cause of quarrel with those with whom he was compelled 
to differ. 

" Mr. Bowling's death was immediately caused by being 
thrown from a buggy and having his leg broken. His health 
previous to this shock being declining, he had no physical 
strength to bear him up, and his spirit passed from earth to 
judgment under the kind and holy care of the good Sisters of 
Mercy, at St. Mary's Hospital, where he was happily removed 
for surgical treatment. 

" This splendid institution was founded by the Sisters of 
Mercy, and at the time of Mr. Bowling's death. Rev, Mother 
Russell, sister to Father Russell of the Irish Monthly, referred 
to above, presided over its destiny. I understand that the 
same noble lady is still Superioress of this hospital, which has 

4 



34 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

been a blessing to San Francisco for more than a quarter of a 
centuiy. 

"Fortified by the Sacraments of the Church, of which he 
had always been a devoted and faithful member, Bartholomew 
Bowling died in St. Mary's on the 20th day of November, 1863, 
in the fortieth year of his age. The Irish -American societies of 
San Francisco accompanied his mortal remains to their final 
resting place in Calvary cemetery, where a handsome monument, 
erected by his brother, Mr. William Dowling, marks his grave 
and perpetuates his name." 

Such is the short story of the author's life from one 
who knew him intimately and loved him sincerely. 
Mr. Dowling was a poet of rare gifts and liberal 
education. Versed in one of the ancient and several 
of the modern languages, the classic writers were the 
masters of his youth and the constant companions of 
his matured years. 

Wherever he wandered, whether 

In chapel, church or meeting. 

On prairie, field or strand. 
At home among the hills and streams, 

Or in a foreign land, 

He carried along with him a little volume of Beran- 
ger's poems, the gift of his friend and compatriot, 
John Mitchel. From this he made many beautiful 
translations during his connection with the Monitor. 
At his death this souvenir of the indomitable Mitchel 
became the property of a talented and accomplished 
young lady of San Francisco, who, judging from her 



BARTHOLOMEW DOVv'LING. 85 

many published translations, knows well how to use 
and appreciate it. To her we are indebted for " A 
Memory of Seville," which is here published for the 
first time from a manuscript in the handwriting of 
the author. 

Though of a retiring disposition and sensitive 
nature, the talents of Mr. Dowling were recognized 
and appreciated. 

Some prominent business men of San Francisco 
induced him to quit the seclusion of Crucita Valley, 
Contra Costa County, and take his place in the heart 
of the young metropolis, among men of brilliant 
parts. Mr. P. J. Thomas, the enterprising publisher 
and patron of every good work, then a young man in 
full sympathy with the doctrine of the Young Ireland 
leaders, would not suffer Mr. Dowling to live in the 
peaceful shade of his own vine. Mr. Thomas was 
one of the founders of the San Francisco Monitor, in 
March, 1858, and, shortly after, at the earnest solici- 
tation of himself and his partners, Mr. Dowling 
assumed the editorial management of the paper. 
Many leading articles and poems written by him at 
this time show the grasp and fertility of his intellect. 

His stories, essays and poems, if collected, would 
make a portly volume, though, as we are told in this 
article by his biographer, " he did not make litera- 
ture a profession," except in the too brief period of 



33 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

his connection with the pioneer Catholic paper of the 
Pacific Coast. 

During his labors in the mines of California Mr. 
Dowling wrote many interesting sketches and beau- 
tiful poems, which may be found in the California 
Pioneer, under the nom de plume of '' Hard Knocks." 
In a lengthy poem entitled " Reminiscences of the 
Mines," he depicts life in the mining camp more 
faithfully than and quite as graphically as Bret Harte. 
It was published in the Pioneer magazine for Novem- 
ber, 1855, and thence we refer the old prospector who 
packed his pick and pan in the " days of gold." 
Sometimes he wrote under the pen-name of Southern; 
at other times over the initial letter of his surname; 
but his favorite signature was Masque. In " Hayes' 
Ballad Poetry of Ireland," two of Mr. Dowling's 
productions are printed anonymously, and only one 
bears his name. 

We have succeeded in collecting, from different 
sources, forty of his best songs and ballads, of a very 
high order, deserving, indeed, a better fate than that 
to which they have been consigned for a quarter of a 
century. 

The following introductory remarks to his trans- 
lation of Korner's " Prayer Before Battle," we give 
as a specimen of Mr. Dowling's prose writing. This 
short preamble bristles with imaginative power, and 



BAilTi-IOLOrdE'vV DOWLING. o7 

demonstrates how fully his soul sympathized with 
the subject which evoked his innate love of liberty: 

THEODORE KORNER. 

' ' At the commencement of the year 1813 a young man 
resided in Vienna, whose brilliant talents had won him a most 
enviable social position. The purity of his principles and the 
high moral tone of his character fortunately protected him 
from those fatal allurements that, in Courts and capitals, are 
so seductive; which first tempt, then tarnish, and finally destroy 
for all purposes of good the glorious gift of genius. 

' ' Living in a state of society where men had not yet learned 
to appraise noble aspirations, generous impulses, glowing 
thoughts or elevated principles of action by the dignified 
standard, 'How does it pay?' Theodore Korner had given 
voice to the aspiration of his mind and the feelings of his soul 
in noble songs that went direct to the hea--ts of his country- 
men and roused the national spirit in an extraordinary degree. 
It was at this time that Prussia raised her standard to emanci- 
pate herself from the humiliating rule of the fiist Napoleon, 
and invoked her sons to rise for the Fatherland. Lutznow's 
celebrated brigade of volunteers was then foraied and its ranks 
filled with the educated youth of the countiy, amongst wdiom 
Korner at once took his place as a private. He was then in the 
full enjoyment of earthly happiness, fame, social position, fair 
fortune, high esteem among the good and educated of his coun- 
try; and, that nothing might be wanted to fill liis cup, the first 
dream of a pure and fortunate love was at this moment illumi- 
nating his youth and harmonizing his existence. All these 
inducements, however, could not win him to rest in the mere 
enjoyment of life when duty called him to its more active exer- 



38 IRISH POETS AJSID NOVELISTS: 

cise at the post of danger. He thus expressed his motives at 
the time, in a letter to his father: 

" ' I swear to God the sentiments which animate me are, a 
firm belief that no sacrifices are too great for the liberty of our 
countiy. I feel compelled to rush into this tempest. Shall I, 
far from the path of my brave brethren, send them hymns and 
songs inspired by a safe and cowardly enthusiasm ? No I ' 

" Active, energetic, obedient, disciplined and brave, Korner 
became specially distinguished in this great, distinguished corps, 
and was soon appointed Adjutant of it. On the 26th of August, 
1813, the corps of Lutznow confronted the French at Kitzen. 
They halted in the forest to rest, for an hour at the grey light 
of the morning. During this interval, Korner composed his 
celebrated "Prayer during Battle," (of which we give an 
attempt at an English version). Korner read it to a friend at 
the moment he wrote it; whilst still reciting it the bugle sounded 
the advance. In an instant he was in the front of battle, and 
as the vanquished French gave way and retreated before the 
fiery- enthusiasm of Lutznow's corps, Korner exultingly led the 
pursuit, and in the act of cheering on his countrymen, he fell, 
pierced by a grape shot, and found the glorious death, at the 
early age of 22, which he had poetically prophesied. All Ger- 
many mourned the fate of the brave and gifted young patriot. 
But why should he have been mourned ? His -vyas a fortunate 
and happy destiny, briefly but nobly accomplished. He passed 
from earth with all life's bright illusions undispelled, while fame 
and love, and gloiy , and virtue, were still realities to him, before 
a questionable experience had chilled his faith , or worldly wis- 
dom with its plausible expediencies had taken the place of nobler 
motives and simpler purpose. He fell on the frontier of his 
native land, driving the foe from her soil, giving force and 
vitality to heroic sentiment by heroic deeds, and casting over 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 39 

all the brighter halo of a pure, a virtuous and a devotional 
spirit." 

PRAYER DURING BATTLE. 

[From the German of Theodore Korner.] 

Father, I call to Thee! 
Roaring around me the cannons storm; 
Like a shroud their lightnings enwrap my form. 

Guide of the battles, I call to Thee: 
♦ Father ! to-day be a guide to me. 

Father, oh guide me! 
Lord of my life and breath. 
Give me to victory or to death; 

Even as thou wiliest so to me. 

God, I acknowledge Thee! 

God, I acknowledge Thee 
In the fair woodland's light. 
As in the tempest of the fight. 

Fountain of Mercy, I acknowledge Thee' 

Father, give blessing unto me. 

Father, oh bless me! 
My life into thy hands I give. 
'Tis thine to take or bid me live. 

On life or death, oh, let Thy blessing be. 

Father! Thy child gives praise to Thee. 

Father, I praise Thee! 
This holy strife, bless Thou, O Lord; 
Give to me strength and guide my sword. 

Falling or conquering, praise to Thee! 

God, I bow willingly. 



^0 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

God, I bow willingly. 
When death comes in the battle glow, 
Even as my heart's warm currents ilow, 

To Thee, my God, I make the offering free. 

Father, O Father, hear! I call on Thee! 

Since we had the privilege of publishing in the 
St. Joseph's Union the foregoing biographical sketch, 
Mr. William Dowling, Avho is himself a writer of 
ability also, has kindly placed at our disposal a large 
number of his brother's poems, both in print and 
manuscript. This collection comprises nearly all 
of Bartholomew Dowling's reliques, and it afiPords 
us much pleasure to think that it is through the 
medium of Irish Poets and Novelists they will be 
given to the public for the first time in a collected 
form, and handed down to future generations of 
Irish- American readers. 

Most of the historical verses were written for and 
published in the Nation, at a time when the editors 
of that journal had determined to write a ballad 
history of Ireland. This was a pet scheme of Davis, 
and to the task he addressed himself with an 
earnestness which was equalled onh" by his success. 
Dowling, then residing in Limerick, was commis- 
sioned to chronicle in stirring verse all the historic 
events of national interest that had occurred in 
recent days or old within the confines of Thomond. 
As a result we have a number of SDlendid ballads 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 41 

such as "Sarsfield's Sortie," "The Vision of King 
Brian," ''The Assault on Limerick," "The Brigade 
at Fontenoy," and many others equally calculated to 
kindle the enthusiasm of the masses and nerve the 
arms of struggling patriots. 

Though Mr. Dowling wrote not a few sweet lyrics, 
which go to prove that he possessed in a marked 
degree both the sentiment and inspiration so essen- 
tial to success in that species of composition, yet it 
is quite evident that ballad-writing, or narrative 
poetry, was his forte; and, had not his plans and 
those of his associates been frustrated by the brute 
force that stood behind English bayonets, he 
undoubtedly would have left us many more ballads 
as intense'ly national in tone and spirit as those to 
be found in this collection. 

That awe-inspiring poem entitled " Hurrah for the 
Next that Dies," conclusively proves that our author 
possessed a mine of dramatic genius which was no 
more than prospected. Pie seems to have been 
unconscious of possessing this power, and it went 
undeveloped to the grave. In his brief, busy life, 
perhaps, he never had within reach the opportunity 
necessary for such development. 

His claim to the authorship of this poem has been 
brought into question of late, and it has been ascribed 
to one Capt. Walter Dobenay, serving in India at the 
time of the epidemic to which the verses allude. 



42 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

But the name of Mr. Dowling has nearly always 
been attached to this strange poem. It appears over 
his name on page 787 in Henry Coates' Encyclopedia 
of Poetry, published at Philadelphia, when the poem 
was yet fresh in the public mind. We have seen it 
ascribed to Dowling in other publications also, but 
never more than once heard of its being the compo- 
sition of " that officer in India," Capt. Dobenay. 

About the strongest reason put forward for con- 
necting it with the name of this British captain is 
the assertion of a pedantic writer in a late issue of 
a local paper. He gives neither proofs nor authori- 
ties, however, to substantiate his assertion. 

Mr. Dowling "was never in India," it is true; 
neither was he ever at Fontenoy. Yet he wrote that 
inimitable martial ballad called "The Brigade at 
Fontenoy." 

He had an uncle, however, who died in India when 
the poet was a mere boy, and ever after, both at 
home and in exile, the genial bard took a deep 
interest in the happenings of that plundered land. 

He has written another poem of much merit, 
which has for its subject an incident in India, and 
for title, " The Relief of Lucknow." This poem is 
now before us, and so far as we are aware, nobody 
doubts that he is the author of it. It was not neces- 
sary, therefore, for him to go to India in order to 
write such a poem. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 43 

Now comes one of our strongest proofs. The poem 
in dispute was first printed in tliis city in 1858. 
Mr. Dowling was then editor of the San Francisco 
Monitor. Mr. P. J. Thomas, 505 Clay street, one of 
the founders of that paper, was also the publisher. 
He has a distinct recollection of putting the poem in 
type from the manuscript of Bartholomew Dowling. 
He still clearly remembers the comments passed on 
it in the office of the paper when it was read in his 
presence by the author We are glad that there is a 
living witness to settle this question of disputed 
authorship. 

As a prose writer Dowling was brilliant, copious 
and convincing. His leading articles in the back 
files of the Monitor attest the truth of this assertion 
and bear us out in saying that he was no novice in 
the politics of his time. He took no part in politics, 
however, more than that of giving his views regard- 
ing the issues of the day to the readers of the Monitor. 
Though fond of the society of active and learned 
men, a fine conversationalist and brilliant public 
speaker, he was never seen in the political arena of 
his adopted country. The spoils of office had no 
charms for him. In Ireland, when the hopes and 
aspirations of the '48 men were high, the part he 
took in establishing "physical force" clubs proved 
that he possessed organizing as well as literary 
ability. 



44 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Possessing but one aim in life — the liberation of 
Ireland from English thraldom — Mr. Dowling never 
married. All his energies and intellectual gifts were 
devoted to the cause of Irish independence. Out of 
that cause he made no capital. He was honestly and 
honorably devoted to it, and his character as Irish 
Patriot comes down to us without stain and without 
reproach. His early youth and manhood were given 
to a noble cause. His heart and hopes were set on 
the regeneration of his native land, and although the. 
work was not accomplished he labored not in vain. 
Nor is his memory likely to perish. It is insepara- 
bly connected with the ''Brigade at Fontenoy," and 
that is destined to endure as long as the martial 
spirit of the Irish Celt. 

THE DEATH-SONG OF THE VIKING. 

[There is a Scandinavian legend that Siegfried, the "Viking," feeling that 
he was at the point of death, caused himself to be placed on the deck of his 
ship; the sails were hoisted, the vessel set on fire, and in this manner he 
drifted out to sen, alone, and finished his career. ] 

My race is run, my errand done, the pulse of life beats low; 
My heart is chill, and the conquering will has lost its fiery glow. 
Launch once again on the noHhern main my battleship of old: 
I would die on the deck, 'mid storm and wreck, as befits a 
Viking bold. 

I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round 

my track 
For a moment clears, and my youth's compeers again to my 

side come back; 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 45 

And the tall ships reel o'ei' their iron keel, as we sweep down on 
the foe, 

Like a giant's form amid the storm, where the mighty tem- 
pests blow. 

Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o'er a conquered city rise, 

As in those days, when the Skald's wild lays, sang the fame of 
our high emprise; 

When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the 
Scandinavian band.^ 

Who backward b )re to the Baltic's shore the spoil of the West- 
ern lands. 

But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship. 
Place my battle-brand in this dying hand , and the wine-cup to 

my lip; 
Then loose each sail to the rising gale and lash the helm a-lee. 
Alone, alone, on my drifting throne, I would view my realm. 

the sea. 

My realm and grave the northern wave, where the tempest's 
voice will sing 

My death-song loud, where flame shall shroud the ocean's war- 
rior-king. 

Whilst heroes wait at Valhalla's gate to proudly welcome me. 

For my race is run, my errand done. Receive thy Chief, O sea! 

THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY. 

By our camp-fires rose a murmur 

At the dawning of the day, 
And the sound of many footsteps 

Spoke the advent of the fray; 



46 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And as we took our places 

Few and stern were our words, 

"WTiile some were tightening horee-girths, 
And some were girding swords. 

The trumpet blast has sounded 

Our footmen to array, 
The willing steed has bounded, 

Impatient for the fray. 
The green flag is unfolded, 

While rose the ciy of joy: 
* ' Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner 

This day at Fontenoy!" 

We looked upon that banner. 

And the memoiy arose 
Of our homes and perished kindred, 

WTiere the Lee or Shannon flows; 
And we looked upon that banner. 

And we swore to God on high, 
To smite to-day the Saxon's might — 

To conquer or to die. 

Loud swells the charging trumpet — 

'Tis a voice from our own land^ v 
God of battles ! God of vengeance ! 

Guide to-day the patriot's brand ' 
There are stains to wash away, 

There are memories to destroy 
In the best blood of the Briton, 

To-day, at Fontenoy. 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 47 

Plunge deep the fiery rowels 

In a thousand reeking flanks. 
DowTi, chivalry of Ireland, 

Down on the British ranks! 
Now shall their serried columns 

Beneath our sabres reel. 
Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse; 

Through their bosoms with the steel ! 

With one shout for good King Louis, 

And the fair land of the vine. 
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest 

We swept upon their line. 
Then rang along the battle-field 

Triumphant our hurrah. 
And we smot« them down, still cheering, 

" Erin, slanthagal go bragh." 

As prized as is the blessing 

From an aged father's lip; 
As welcome as the haven 

To the tempest driven ship; 
As dear as to the lover 

The smile of gentle maid, 
Is this day of long-sought vengeance 

To the swords of the brigade. 

See their scattered forces flying, 

A broken, routed line. 
See, England, what brave laurels 

For your brow to-day we twine. 



48 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

O, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed 

The Briton turn to tlee 
From the chivalry of Erin 

And France's ^'fleur de lis." 

As we lay beside our camp-tires 

When the sun had passed away, 
And thought upon our brethren 

Who had perished in the fray, 
We prayed to God to grant us , 

And then we'd die with joy, 
One day upon our own dear land 

Like this at Fontenoy. 

HYMN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD. 

Up, comrades, up, the bugle peaLs the note of war's alarms, 
And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms; 
Adieu, adieu, fair land of France, where the vine of Brennus 

reigns; 
We go where the blooming laurels grow, on the bright Italian 

plains. 
Advance! advance! brave sons of France, before the startled 

world ; 
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 

Our eagles shall fly 'neath many a sky, with a halo round their 

way, 
Where Histoiy flings, on their flashing wings, the light of 

Glory's ray; 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 49 

And we shall bear them proudly on, through many a mighty- 
fray, 

That shall win old nations back to life, in the glorious coming 
day. 

Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 
world, 

For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 

The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty, 
Our swoi^ds invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy. 
And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic 

hand. 
To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian 

land. 
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 

world , 
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 

See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict 

shock. 
And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on 

Helena's rock ; 
In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart 

anew, 
Our avenging shout, o'er the battle rout — remember Waterloo! 
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 

world. 
For France, once more, her tricolor in trhimph hath unfurled. 

And, hark, a wail from our kindred Gael, comes floating from 

the West— 
That gallant race, whose chosen place was ever our battle's 

crest ; p 



50 IFJSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Now is the day we can repay the generous debt we owe 
To Irish blood, that freely flowed to conquer France's foe. 
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 

world, 
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 

Old Tricolor, as in days of yore, you shall wave o'er vanquished 

kings. 
And your folds shall fly 'neath an English sky, on Victory's 

crimson wings; 
And Europe's shout shall in joy ring out, hailing freedom in 

thy track, 
When our task is done, and we bear thee on, to France with 

glory back. 
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 

world. 
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 

HURRAH FOR THE NEXT THAT DIES! 

[This remarkable poem relates to revelry in India at a time -when the 
English officers serving in that countrywere being struck down by pestilence. 
Tt has been correctly styled "the very poetry of military despair."] 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 

And the walls around are bare: 
As they shout back our peals of laughter, 

It seems as the dead were there. 
Then stand to your glasses! — steady! 

We drink 'fore our comrades' eyes; 
One cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 51 

Not here are the goblets glowing, 

Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
'Tis cold as our hearts are growing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 
But stand to your glasses ! — steady ! 

And soon shall our pulses rise. 
One cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies : 

There's many a hand that's shaking. 

And many a cheek that's sunk ; 
But soon, though our hearts are breaking, 

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
Then stand to your glasses ! — steady ! 

'Tis here the revival lies; 
Quaff a cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Time was when we laughed at others; 

We thought we were wiser then. 
Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers. 

Who hope to see them again. 
No ! Stand to your glasses ! — steady ! 

The thoughtless is here the wise; 
One cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, 

Not a tear for the friends that sink; 
We'll fall 'mid the wine-cup's sparkles, 

As mute as the wine we drink. 



52 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Come ! Stand to your glasses ! — steady ! 

'Tis this that the respite buys; 
One cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Who dreads to the dust returning ? 

Who shrinks from the sable shore, 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul can sting no more ? 
No! Stand to your glasses! — steady! 

This world is a world of lies; 
One cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Cut off from the land that bore us, 

Betray'd by the land we find, 
When the brightest are gone before us, 

And the dullest are left behind. 
Stand ! — stand to your glasses ! — steady ! 

'Tis all we have left to prize; 
One cup to the dead already: 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

THE FOREIGN SHAMROCK. 

Down in the ocean of the years my ship and freight hath gone, 
, And the wave of Time o'er the perished wreck is slowly surging 

on. 
To-day, on the shore of this Western land, that wave brings 

back to me 
A shamrock green, and, in its sheen, my long lost argosy. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 53 

I place the leaves above m) heart, as a wondrous talisman, 
For they bear me back to a better time, ere the exile's lot began; 
And again, in the flush of glowing youth, among my own 

I stand, 
In the bright mirage of a generous hope, in my own lost native 

land. 

What mem'i'ies throng round this triple leaf, and, phantom- 
like, arise, 

er sordid cares and lonely toil, to the spirit's longing eyes, 

When the will was strong, and the purpose proud, and the fresh 
heart only knew 

An earnest faith, and a fiery throb, and a trustful love and true! 

Hence — hence, with every mean desire, with selfishness and 

pride ! 
And be this day, on life's rude way, beloved and sanctified; 
And from the Irish exile's heart, with many a fault o'ercast 
Let Faith and Hope and Love arise, as incense to the past. 

ODORS. 

— "A valley where he sees 
Things lost on earth." — Milton. 

A BREATH of south wind, floating free, 
Wafts odors faint from distant flowers, 
Waking a subtle sense — and hours, 

Long vanished, come again to me. 

A voice, long silent, strikes my ear, 

Whose gentle whisperings, soft and low, 
Woke all the music long ago 

That youth's pure dreaming loved to hear. 



54 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

A vanished hand, whose touch once gave 
A thrill of heavenly life to mine, 
Again the spring-flowers seem to twine 

Beside a silveiy river's wave. 

The joy is dead and a dull pain 

Comes wafted on this soft perfume, 
While the dim past seems to entomb 

Phantoms of buried dreams again. 

SARSFIELD'S SORTIE. 

King James' banner floats above 

The city's southern tower, 
Defying proudly to the last 

The Dutch usurper's power; 
And Hope seeks there a resting place 

For Freedom's shattered wing. 
And faithful Limerick stands alone 

For Ireland's rightful King. 

The Chiefs are gathered for debate 

Within the civic hall. 
While foes are gathering thick around 

Her closely leaguered wall; 
And news has come that William sends 

A ponderous battering train 
To breach the walls that by assault 

His warrioi-s failed to gain. 

Out spoke the Mayor: " 'Tis bootless strife 

For James' ruined throne ; 
The land is vanquished east and west — 

We struggle now alone. 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 55 

And famine soon will chill the heart 

That fearlessly would brave 
An open field or leaguered wall, 

The soldier's bloody grave." 

" Now, by the spirit of my sires!" 

The gallant Sarsfield cried, 
' ' We shall not truckle to the foe 

While swords are by our side. 
Give me but fifty daring hearts — 

Nay, never frown or chide — 
And , by my faith ! King William's train 

Ne'er sees the Shannon's side." 

He gazed a moment sternly round; 

They hail his words with cheers, 
And quick into their saddles spring 

The fifty volunteers. 
Then through the eastern sally-port 

They spin with headlong speed, 
And ' ' Sarsfield to the rescue ! " rings 

In Limerick's hour of need. 

On swept they, like a whirlwind, 

Knockanny's hill to gain; 
Where twice two hundred cannoniers 

Are guarding William's train; 
On, on they dashed, no word they spoke, 

Nor bridle rein they drew. 
Till Ireland's hated foreign foe 

Had met their eager view. 



56 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Hark, hark! upon the startled foe 

Now bursts their wild hun^ah: 
" Down, down upon the foreign slaves! 

Upon them ! Smite and slay ! 
Trample the robbers to the earth ! 

Ay, cleave them to the core! 
To spare the plunderer of our homes 

Were scorn for evermore." 

The field is won, the prize is gained 

They sallied forth to gain; 
The Dutchman's brave artilleiy 

And all his battering train 
Lie shattered wide and harmless 

By noble Sarslield's skill , 
Whose glory haunts our memories, 

And fires our spirits still. 

They durst not tiy to storm again, 

For few came back to tell 
How, 'neath the brave defenders, 

The storming party fell. 
Next day, before the sun had gilt 

The banner of our liege. 
The foe withdrew their army, 

And Ginkle raiiSed the siege. 

No monuments are towering 
To honor Sarsfield's name, 

But in faithful Irish bosoms 
There are temples to his fame. 



BARTHOLOMEVv' DOAYLING. 67 

And marble shrines shall perish 

And ages roll away 
Ere his memory is forgotten, 

Or the glory of that day. 

THE VISION OF KING BRIAN. 

[Time.— The Night before the Battle of Clontarf.] 
The great old Irish houses, the proud old Irish names. 
Like stars upon the midnight, to-day their lustre gleams. 
Gone are the great old houses, the proud old names are low 
That shed a glory on the land a thousand years ago. 

These were the great old houses, o'er whom the spirits held 
Mystic watchings at Life's closing, in the distant days of eld; 
Oft foretold they of Death's advent, in a slowly chanted wail, 
And often in the tones that glad a warrior in his mail. 

And wheresoe'er a scion of those great old houses be, 

In the countiy of his fathers, or the lands beyond the sea, 

In city, or in hamlet, by the valley, on the hill, 

The spirit of his brave old sires is watching o'er him still. 

'Twas thus before the battle that freed the Irish land, 
That crushed the Dane forever on Clontarf 's empurpled strand; 
'Twas thus that brave King Brian, at the mid hour of the night 
Saw a vision as he slumbered, befitting kingly sight: 

A woman pale and beautiful, a woman sad and fair — 

Proud and stately was her stature, black and flowing was her 

hair; 
White as snow the robe around her, floating shadow-like and 

free , 
Whilst with a silver trumpet's tone, to the sleeper, thus spoke 

she: 



58 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

' ' King ! unto thee 'tis given to triumph o'er the Dane — 
To drive his routed army forth unto the Northern Main, 
But the palace of thy fathers thou shalt never see again; 
Thou, and the son thou lovest, shall sleep amongst the slain 

" Yet far into the future thy memoiy shall live, 
And to the souls of men unborn a glorious impulse give; 
Thy dynasty shall perish before a factious band, 
But thy spirit shall forever dwell upon the Irish land. 

* ' Men yet unborn shall know thee as thy country's sword and 

shield, 
Wise and prudent in the council, brave and skillful in the field; 
When the factious and the spoilers shall trample on the free. 
They will pray to God to raise them a Deliverer like thee. 

*' Thou shalt leave unto thy country, and the nations, a proud 
name; 

Thou shalt leave it peace and freedom, and a bright and glori- 
ous fame; 

Thou shalt leave it upraised altars, happy homes and smiling 
fields 

W^here the sower shall be reaper of what Heaven's bounty yields. 

" Yet, trampling on thy country, the spoiler's foot shall come, 
Woo'd to conquest and to plunder, by factious feuds at home; 
Milesian with Milesian shall battle day by day. 
Till the gloiy of the Irish land shall pass from it away. 

" The fanatic and the bigot shall come with fire and brand. 
With foreign swords and foreign laws, black heart and bloody 

hand; 
They will trample on the altar, they will trample on the shrine. 
And pollute each holy relic that thy country holds divine. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 59 

"But thy country shall stand firm, thro' plunder and thro' 

scathe, 
To that which thou shalt die for, her consecrated faith; 
Tho' her altars be in ruins, tho' her conquerors slay and rive, 
Yet, despite of ban or guerdon, her faith shall still survive. 

" Thy country's best and bravest shall struggle long and vain, 
And some shall seek in distant lands to 'scape a conqueror's chain; 
And some shall fall from princely hall e'en to the peasant's shed. 
And many on her hard-fought fields shall slumber with the dead. 

"But the God whose hand is stretched forth thy country to 

chastise, 
. In His own good time and fitting will bid the prostrate rise; 
For her faith He hath recorded where the mighty seal is set, 
And His mercy, aye, it shall gush forth and vivify her yet. 

" In her deepest hour of sorrow, in her darkest hour of shame, 
Thy country still shall treasure the glory of thy name. 
In the greatest hour of triumph, when her history shall bear 
To the future all her gloiy , thine shall still be foremost there." 

No more she spake unto him, but passed like mist away, 
As it floats up from the valley, beneath the summer's ray — 
No more spake she unto him, but ever on the gale. 
Until the hour of dawning, came a low and mystic wail. 

***** 

Next day amid the foremost brave Murrough, fighting, fell, 
The flower of Irish chivaliy— the son he loved so well; 
And from our shores for ever was swept that day the Dane; 
But the old king and his favorite son were numbered with the 
slain. 



60 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

IN VAIN. 

In vain, how many a year is spent,— 

Aye, long years worn away, 
And oh, how much to hope is lent, 

It never will repay! 
For who can tell the years of toil. 

The waste of heart and brain, 
And the weaiy travail of the soul 

That have been borne in vain ! 

The sleepless sage some star hath sought. 

Till hope and sight gi-ew dim — 
It shone for eyes that loved it not ; 

But never beamed on him. 
Thus fate will snatch the gem away 

Which all was oriven to erain, 
Or feebly shed the long-sought ray 

Where it may beam in vain. 

The poet's song may yet go forth 

To many a distant shore. 
To fling around his land of birth 

A glory evermore; 
Yet, o'er the lyre hangs cloud and gloom 

Where dwells a witching strain. 
And the minstrel yet will find a tomb 

With bright bays crowned — in vain. 

The Chief, who seeks for endless life, 
His countiy's pride and might; 

Who wins his way through days of strife 
And watchings of the night; 



BAKTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 61 

Whose voice the powers of earth could shake 

In senate, field or fane — 
Hiffh hearts like these too oft must break, 

And often fall — in vain. 

And love, the pure and true, that clings 

In spite of ill or check — 
Oh, many give some treasured things, 

But THIS holds nothing back. 
Yet woe to well-springs of the heart 

Poured foi'th like summer rain, 
While wealth could fail to purchase part 

Of all that's given in vain. 

And some have borne the blast unbowed 

To sink beneath the wave, 
E'en when the bow was in the cloud, 

Or life-boat near to save. 
Thus upon human toil and care 

Some blight will still remain: 
So let us lay our treasures where 

They are not heaped in vain. 

SONG FOR THE '82 CLUB. 

At last we meet, as brothers meet, 

A nation's strength combining; 
A giant starting to his feet, 

A long-dimmed weapon shining. 
No longer foreign rule shall cast 

Its festering chain, to bind us; 
The feuds and follies of the past 

Are forever cast behind us. 



62 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

We boast a still unconquered land, 

Despite their foreign charters ; 
For that dear isle we take our stand, 

Her champions, or her martyrs. 
The memoiy of her glorious dead 

And her smiling fields remind us 
Of the debt we owe the land we tread, 

While our feuds we cast behind us. 

Up, brothers! there is work to ao — 

Go take a foremost station, 
To build the temple up again. 

To raise a fallen nation. 
To spread her glory far and wide — 

None shall divided find us; 
But working bravely, side by side, 

While the past is cast behind us. 

THE LAUNCHING OF "LA GLOHIE." 

[The magnificent French line-of-battle ship "La Gloire" was launched at 
Cherbourg in the year 18G1. This was then the largest war ship in the world, 
presenting the novel feature of being entirely cased in steel. "La Gloire" 
was at that time justly considered the pride of the French Navy.] 

Come bare the arm and grasp the sledge, to strike the shores 

away, ' 

For our work is finished, and we launch a royal ship to-day. 
All panoplied like knight of old — cuirassed in mail of steel. 
From stem to stern, from side to side, from bulwark to the keel. 

A flag for our ship, our royal ship, to bear to eveiy shore, 
To float and fly o'er every sea where waves and tempests roar — 
Up to the peak with France's flag, the glorious tricolor, 
Sacred to victory, freedom, fame, now and for evermore! 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 63 

A name for our ship, our royal ship, to live on History's page, 

That shall ring like a nation's rallying cry where the fierce sea- 
battles rage; 

Sprinkle our ship with the southern wine, from stem to armed 
prow: 

In the name of France, and France's fame, we name thee 
" Glory" now. 

Oh, wondrous triumph of man's ax't, what destiny is thine! 
Where Northern tempests madly rave, or tropic glories shine — 
Wrestling with whirlwinds in their wrath, like a giant fired 

with wine. 
Or bearing ocean wan'iore on through the sea-fight's battle's line ' 

No galleon from the Spanish Main — no Eastern argosie — 
E'er bore so rich a freight as thine, proud monarch of the sea; 
For a thousand conquering, fiery hearts are throbbing now in 

thee, 
For France's name, for France's fame, for death or victoiy. 

What shadows from the past shall haunt thy pathway on the 

main ! — 
The great traditions of the land of mighty Charlemagne ! 
Illuming with their undimmed hght a heritage of fame, 
For thee to guard, for thee to keep and mingle with thy name. 

Up from Atlantic waves shall come, as through the foam you 

sweep , 
The echo of a gurgling cheer that once rase from the deep. 
As " La Vengeur " fighting England's fleet, sank in the 

whelming sea, 
And Vive le France! from her thousand men, rose up defiantly. 



64 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Go bear thy flag — go bear thy name — along the mountain wave, 
Thou proud, mailed warrior of the deep, to conquer and to save! 
In storm or fight thy mission still to grandly do and dare, 
Showing the world, where'er thou art, that France in Glory's 

theie. 

THE CAPTURE OF PARIS. 

(FKOM the FRENCH OF VICTOR CARMINE.) 

[In the following lines the writer illustrates the heroic incidents in th© 
days of July, 1830, when a body of the students of the Polytechnic School 
broke out of that institution, and headed the first attacks that were made in 
the streets of Paris, which eventuated in the overthrow of the government of 
Charles X, and the establishment of Louis Philippe on the throne.] 

A MIGHTY crowd, with accents loud, are swaying to and fro, 
Where a nation's arm seems lifted up to strike a nation's blow. 
Some shout aloud, " Down with the King!" some counsel calm 

and slow, 
Some gaze about with anxious doubt, and some with fiery glow. 

Thus was it, as the sun arose, o'er lofty Notre Dame, 
When a stripling, but a gallant band, among the people came, 
With beardless lips, but manly hearts, made for the battle's van, 
With skillful hands, and ready swords, to win the rights of man. 

Out stepped young Dumont from their ranks, he waved his 

bonnet high , 
Proudly he spoke, in words of fire, whilst fiercely flashed his 

eye: 
' ' A bas les Bourbons ! Follow us. We'll show you how to die ! " 

" A bas les Bourbons!" rang around, and Paris caught the cry. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 65 

Abas les Bourbons! Frenchmen, on! the Polytechnic leads' 
The beardless youth shall win to-day the fame of hei-oes' deeds. 
Down falls the first in glory's lap; from twenty wounds he 

bleeds; 
Hurrah! close up. His place is filled; another, fearless, leads. 

Hurrah' they come, the hireling swords, Switzer and 

Allemagne. 
Ho! Saint Antoine ! stout Saint Antoine! upon them once again! 
Up, up, Saint Jaques! and smite them down! fear not the fiery 

rain! 
Hurrah for freedom for the quick, and vengeance for the slain! 

Fear not their swooping cavaliy, fear not their cannoniers! 
Up, to the deadly muzzles — up, heroic Ecoliers! 
Forth gushes flame and leaden hail, but as the death-cloud clears, 
The Polytechnics' flag above the captured guns appears. 

Look up , look up ! How brave it floats upon the summer breeze ! 

The tricolor is planted o'er the haughty Tuilleries. 

Then high the shout of triumph rose, that crushed the Bourbon's 

throne : 
" Live France, live France! the day is won; proud Paris is our 

own!" 

Time-honored be their memories, who for their fathers' land 
Rushed from the students' solitude to grasp the patriot's brand ; 
Time-honored be their gory graves who hated tyrant laws, 
Who loved the people — and who died, to right the people's 
cause! 



66 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. 

[From the French of Beranger] 

Hark, hark, my steed! come rouse thy speed; on the wings of 

death let's forth! 
Thou, the Cossack's pride and comrade tried — hark! the 

trumpets of the North; 
No enriching gold does thy saddle hold; but rouse thee up, my 

steed — 
For the ready spoil of city and soil awaits our daring deed. 
Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 

conquest rings, 
And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 

her kings. 

Europe is old, her heart is cold, and her ancient ramparts low; 
Peace flies the plain, and, with loosened rein, we rush like a 

torrent's flow; 
Come, and fill my hands, in the Western lands, with the 

treasures of the mart; 
Come, and make thy stall in the stately hall, and repose in the 

homes of art. 
Return to drink at that river's brink, where thou before hast 

been, 
And lave thy flanks by the sunny banks of rebellious river 

Seine — 
Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 

conquest rings, 
And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 

her kincfs. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 67 

I have seen at night, by our camp-fire's light, a phantom stern 

and grand, 
Fix his ardent gaze o'er the bivouack's blaze and point with his 

armed hand 
To the West, with pride, as he fiercely cried: " Once more 

begins my reign." 
'Twas the mighty Hun, Attilla's son — I obey thy voice again! 
Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 

conquest rings, 
And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 

her kings. 

The glory and fame of Europe's name, that wreathe with pride 

her brow. 
The wisdom and lore which was hers of yore, but which cannot 

save her now. 
It is time they fall! Engulph them all, in the waves of dust 

that rise 
'Round the Cossack's track, from thy hoofs flung back, like an 

eclipse in the skies. 
Erase, erase from their ancient place, in the wrath of thy new 

career, 
Palace and mart, temples and art, laws and each souvenir. 
Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 

conquest rings, 
And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 

her kings. 



63 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



THE MIDNIGHT WATCH. 

Grouped in the sick one's stilly room, 
Beneath the waning midnight's gloom, 
While passed the night hours, sad and slow, 
And lamp and life were burning low; 
We watched, where, passing forth from clay, 
A loved and dying mother lay. 

We watched in silence, for the power 
Of memory ruled us in that hour, 
And pictured all that she had been 
Through life in many a changing scene ; 
For true and fix-mly had she trod 
That earthly path, which ends with God. 

What visions thronged around us then 
Of childhood's days, come back again! 
When, in her fair and early youth, 
We basked beneath her eyes of truth; 
And sinless hearts saw from above 
The great God's through a mother's love; 

How at the matron's tranquil hearth. 
Where happy houre had gentle birth. 
Kindred and friends oft gathered 'round, 
Where welcome, frank and kind, was found. 
And, spite of change, and j^eare of care. 
She, 'mid the young, was youngest there; 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 69 

How, in more sad and later years, 

With " smiles that might as well be tears," 

Faithful and hopeful evermore , 

Her cross of life she meekly bore, 

Taking no stain from adverse fate 

To dim a spirit pure and great. 

Fainter and fainter comes each sigh; 
At last, the parting hour is nigh, 
Her bark is on the shadowy shore 
Where cares and fears and hopes are o'er. 
Thus, like the twilight time of May, 
Her spirit passed from earth away. 

No, not all gone! though Heaven may claim 

Back to its fount the eternal flame • 

Her spirit with us doth abide , 

As on through life's dim paths we glide; 

Though all unseen, still present there, 

Watching with guardian angel's care. 

Alas! all we have left undone, 
While yet thy life around us shone, 
To cheer thy path or glad thy time, 
Comes burning on our hearts as crime; 
And our atonement now must be 
To act, to live, and die like thee. 



70 " IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



THE ASSAULT ON LIMERICK. 

Ho, Limerick! ancient Limerick, arouse thy heart to-day; 
Put harness on thy citizens and gird thee for the fray; 
Nerve thy arm for thy homesteads, for the altar and the shrine. 
And the time-enduring memories, proud city, that are thine 

Thy battlements are tottering, thy walls are sapped away, 
And yawns at length the breach whereon full fifty cannon play. 
And, thundering o'er the space between, with tierce exulting 

cheers, 
Carlisle and Drogheda lead on King William's grenadiers. 

They've mounted on the ruined wall, two thousand, firm aiTayed, 
Casting before them, on their path, the deadly hand grenade. 
And with a shout of triumph they sweep upon their way, 
Nor dream of what a welcome we've prepared for them to-day. 

Now shall they feel our Irish steel thro' crest and helmet glide; 
For Sarsfield 's charging in our van with Galway at his side, 
And where e'er his plume is waving, the Brandenbergs lie low, 
And the shout is raised the loudest: " No quarter for the foe!" 

As break the tempest-driven waves recoiling from the rock , 
The chosen band of Brandenberg shrink from the fieiy shock, 
And o'er the din of battle, and o'er the wild hurrah, 
Loud swells the gladsome tidings: " The foreigners give way!" 

Yet 'tis only for a moment: fierce Hanmer's on the wall. 
He charges with his Danish guards, tho' fast and thick they fall; 
And the stout brigades of Camdon rush quickly to his side, 
And Bolcastel's good regiment to swell the bloody tide. 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLIIsG. 71 

But tho' we are out numbered and sore pressed by the foe , 
While we have hands to grasp the sword we'll deal them blow 

for blow; 
Tho' our brethren fall around us, still our bravest and our best 
Gather, like eagles to a feast, 'round Sarsfield's towering crest. 

In the thickest of the battle, in the sorest hour of need. 
When even hope had left us, and but honor bade us bleed, 
A vision came upon us, such as warrior seldom saw, 
That filled our hearts with daring, and our foemen's hearts with 
awe. 

The matrons of our city, whose teachings hallow home, — 
The maidens of the city, in their beauty and their bloom, — 
Join their kin amid the carnage, and battle by their side, 
The mother and the daughter, the sister and the bride. 

We paused but for a moment, while o'er our spirits came 
All the fond and gentle memories that feed affection's flame, 
Then passed into our bosoms a wild and stern glow. 
As we looked back at our city, and then forward at the foe. 

We paused but for a moment, then arose our thrilling cheer, 
Such as men but seldom hearken and forget not when they hear. 
While, beside our bravest warriors, soft lily hands assail 
The foe that flies before us, like leaves before the gale. 

And then the breach their cannon made, we filled up with their 

dead, 
And we chased them to their trenches, by gallant Sarefield led; 
And we looked down from our ramparts, that evening, o'er the 

plain. 
While the twilight cast its shadows, and the foe entombed his 

slain. 



72 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



A REMINISCENCE OF THE MINES. 

Up in a mountain solitude 

Beside a pile of clay, 
A man with shovel , pick and pan 

Stood at the close of day. 

His shirt and sash were very red, 

His nose was very blue, 
And, though the scene around was grand, 

' ' The prospect " would not do. 

His hat! — enough — 'twas shocking bad, 
His sunburnt neck was bare; 

One eye looked droll, the other sad, 
Beneath his unkempt hair. 

His muddy jackboots, of all jet 

Were long ago bereft, 
And unto them, like unto him. 

But little sole was left. 

From out his pale, unsmiling lips. 
With rank beard overgrown. 

Outspoke this lonely mining man 
In semi-growling tone. 

Whilst restlessly his jackboot kept 
The devil's tattoo drumming: 

' I had no sense in coming here, 
I've gained no cents by coming. 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 73 

** Fortune, 'tis written, smiles on fools, 
Wherever they may labor; 
And, surely, I've been fool enough 
To win her choicest favor. 

" But ever she eludes my grasp, 
Despite the proofs I give her 
That I'm an as . She turns from me 
To wanton with my neighbor. 

*' I have not sinned; as some folk sin — 
I pick, but do not steal — 
And though my ways of life are hard, 
My heart is soft to feel. 

*' My neighbor's failings I let pass; 
I covet not a shade 
Of all his goods, his ox, his ass, 
Nor man, nor servant maid. 

" But for this last I claim no grace — 
Though some may not appi'ove it— 
Because in this infernal place 
There are no maids to covet. 

" Nor sparkling eyes, nor beaming smiles 
That filled my dreams of yore ! 
Alas, alas! those days are passed — 
My day-dreams are now "ore." 

" Oh, for one hour where some one's eyes 
Are bright and purely glancing, 
And some one's dainty little feet 
To joyous music dancing. 



74 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

*' Where graceful forms are floating round — 
Most potent heart-dissolvers — 
None but " rope dancers " here are found, 
Surrounded by " revolvers." 

" Oh, for one hour vi^here early life 
Flowed, passing merrily; 
Where youth still hung on low-toned words. 
And not upon a tree. 

" Where friends could wrangle and debate 
About each passing trifle; 
And meet the flash of wit, instead 
Of bowie-knife or rifle." 

He paused, he sighed, he gazed about; 

Then spoke: " Tis cussed line! 
Oh, for a pail of double-stout 

To cool this thirst of mine! 

' ' But never more I'll taste a pot 
Of Thunder's glorious beer ! " — 

The miner turned from the .spot, 
And wiped away a tear. 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 75 

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 

March 6, 1858. 
To THE Editor of the Monitor: 

Sir — I could not help versifying this heroic episode in current history ; 
but my admiration is confined to the bravery and endurance of the rescuers 
and rescued, and has no sympathy whatever with the cause, policy or govern- 
ment whose work they were doing. The relation of the British Government 
to India is simply the relation of the robber to his victim. 

Yours, etc., 

Masque. 



A TORN flag is flying, 

Torn by shot and shell, 
O'er wounded men and dying, 

In Lucknow's citadel. 
Where the stern European 

Hath fought so long and well. 

The ruthless Asiatic, 

Full fifty thousand strong. 
With eager fierceness waits its prey. 

And round the ramparts throng; 
" We'll die for duty; hope or fear 

To us no more belong. 

' Look forth upon the Cawnpore road; 

Look forth to Allabad — 
Strain, strain your gaze to every point, 

Whence succor may be had ! 
Have our countrymen forgot our need ? 

This, this, than death 's more sad." 



76 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The sun hath westward passed 
On the eighty-seventh day, 

Since round the leaguered city, 
The dusky foeman lay; 

On the eighty-seventh weary night 
Falls the young moon's tranquil ray. 

An island woman muses 

On her long lost highland home, 

Where her worn form and longing heart 
Never again may come ; 

To the pleasant places of her youth, 
Once more her fancies roam. 

Upward she springs, all throbbing, 
Beneath the moonbeam's ray; 

A cry of joy bursts from her lips, 
' ' I hear the pibroch's play 

' Campbells are coming ' — they'll be here 
Before the break of day." 

Nought spoke the weary warriors, 
All toil-worn, stern and pale; 

But every ear was bent to hear 

The tidings on the gale. ■ ^ 

Again the night wind brought the sound 
Of the pibrochs of the Gael. 

"To arms!" the chieftain cried, 

" We'll conquer once again; 
To arms, and to the Cawnpore gate!" 
' A fierce hurrah — and then 

The word was passed from rank to rank, 
" 'Tis Campbell and his men." 



BAETHOLOMEW DOWLING. 77 

They come, the Highlandmen, 

Upon the dusky foe, 
And an aged warrior leads them on, 

With a youthful hero's glow; 
And the pibroehs play the charging step 

Of a thousand years ago. 

As the flashing muskets roll 

They raise their battle ciy, 
And, o'er the din of the mingling steel, 

It surges fierce and high: 
'Tis the Celtic slogan, triumphing 

Beneath that Orient sky. 

Ye warriors, tried and true. 

Rescuers, and rescued brave! 
No nobler triumph ever 

Hath war or gloiy gave 
Than yours, ye proud immortals, 

To conquer and to save. 

"MORT SUR CHAMP D'HONNEUR." 

Oh, think not that there's glory won 

But on the field of bloody strife, 
Where flashing blade and crushing gun 

Cut loose the silver chords of life. 
Carve deep his name in brass or stone, 

Who for his home and country bled, 
WTio lies uncofiined and unknown, 

Upon the field of honor dead." 



78 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

But carve there, too, the names of those 
• Who fousfht the fio-ht of faith and truth, 

Bending beneath life's wintry snows. 

Or battling in the pride of youth. 
Whoe'er have kindled one bright ray 

In hearts whence hope and joy had fled, 
Have not lived vainly: such as they 

Are " on the field of honor, dead." 

And those who sink on desert sand. 

Or calmly rest 'neath ocean wave, 
Dropping the cross from weary hand. 

Telling no more its power to save; 
The true, the pure, the brave, the good, 

Falling at duty's post still shed 
A radiant light o'er plain and flood — 

Though "on the field of honor, dead." 

Thus may we live, thus may we die, 

In earnest, valiant, faithful fight; 
True to man's loftiest destiny — 

True to our God, ourselves, and right. 
Then when we sleep, as sleep we must. 

In ocean's cell or earth's dark prison, 
Be this memorial o'er our dust. 

Though dead " he is not here, but risen." 




JOHN BANIM 

POET AND NOVELIST 



I Baw him on his couch of pain, 

And when I heard him speak, 
It was of Hope, long nursed iu vain, 

And tears stole down his cheek. 
He spoke of honors early won. 

Which youth could rarely boast, 
Of high endeavors well begun 

But prematurely lost. 




iHUS sang Thomas Haynes Bayly, the inti- 
mate literary friend of Hood, Rogers and 
Moore, and the devoted friend and admirer of Banim. 
The historic old town of Kilkenny, on the banks of 
the Nore, gave birth to the subject of this sketch on 
the 3d of April, 1798. His father, Michael Banim, 
was a trader, fond of field sports and possessing more 
than an ordinary share of common sense and educa- 
tion. His mother, a woman of excellent qualities 
both of head and heart, was named Carroll, and 
descended from a family of respectability and marked 
refinement. Michael, her eldest son, has left us a 
faithful portrait of her in Rose Brady, the heroine of 
the " Ghost Hunter," and John inherited many of 

her best qualities, as he did also her latent talents. 

(79) 



80 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



Latent, indeed, and undeveloped; for in Ireland 
during those " dark and evil days, " 

Full many a flower was born to blush unseen 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

How could it be otherwise? The wonder is, how 
that dear old Isle of Sage and Saint could have pro- 




^^^^r-^t^^^;^:^^^^^^^t^^ 



duced such an incomparable array of literary lights, 
while oppressed by the incubus of coercion — while 
her noblest sons were being forced by brutal British 
barbarity into exile, or sacrificed to the Moloch of 
British rule. But produce them she did, in spite of 



JOHN BANIM. 81 

all the discouraging circumstances; and the struggles, 
trials and tribulations of her Swifts, Moores, Griffins 
and Goldsmiths were equalled only by their fame. 

Speaking of his mother, Banim says : ''She pos- 
sessed a mind of a very superior order, and a store of 
good sense and womanly, wifely patience; and these, 
with trust in Heaven, were her only marriage portion." 
These qualities her second son, John, possessed in 
an eminent degree, and they were the mainspring of 
his success. 

Having entered the English academy of his native 
town, where Mr. Chas. James Buchanan ruled with 
all the pomp and authority of the schoolmaster men- 
tioned in the " Deserted Village," the future author 
of the "O'Hara Family" picked up the rudiments, 
and was soon promoted to a seminary presided over 
by the learned Father Magrath, a gentleman of 
acknowledged ability in teaching young ideas how 
to shoot. Like many other boys whom we remem- 
ber well, John was wont to play truant in the cool 
recesses of a ruined monastery, or in the delightful 
umbrage of a spreading hawthorn, where he would 
pore for hours over a volume of fairy lore, or con 
with avidity such magazines as came into his posses- 
sion. The literary faculty manifested itself in him 
at even a more tender age than it did in Pope; and 
when he reached his tenth year his manuscript 

7 



82 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

poems and romances were very considerable. Like 
all young literary aspirants who feel the divinus 
sufflatus within them, he idolized men who had dis- 
tinguished themselves in the arena of authorship; 
and when his arch idol, Tom Moore, came to Kil- 
kenny, rolling up his bundles of manuscript, young 
John Banim went to visit the unrivalled melodist, 
showed the productions of his young muse, and had 
the satisfaction of being called " brother poet " by 
the greatest lyrist that the world saw since the days 
of Horace. 

Whilst at the Kilkenny College the young poet 
manifested and developed quite a talent for drawing 
and landscape painting; and, having selected the 
artist's profession, was transferred to the Academy 
of the Koyal Irish Society, Dublin. He obtained 
the first prize for drawing at this academy, and was 
equally distinguished for his industry and regularity 
during the two years of pupilage in the metropolis 
of his native land. One of his letters to his mother 
during this period shows at the same time his filial 
attachment, his abiding trust in Providence, and the 
hope, which then buoyed his heart, of one day 
" tracing the footsteps " of eminent painters: — 

" My Dear Mother. — Your anxious love could not wish me 
better than I am, or with better prospects before me. I have 
the countenance of all, and the friendship of many of the first 
artists and amateurs in my profession. I meet with warm 
encouragement and hope of success from eveiyone. " 



JOHN BANIM. 83 

In a letter written to his father, Christmas Day, 
1813, he says: " There is nothing in the intercourse 
with strangers to compensate one for the absence of 
kindred; but I must not murmur against what can- 
not be avoided. The festival of Christmas reminds 
me that I am desolate. There is no equivalent for 
the peace and blessings I have hitherto enjoyed at 
our Christmas hearth." Poor Banim gave expres- 
sion then to the feelings of many an exiled Celt, who 
yearned for the " Christmas hearth," at home. 

After two years of separation, the artist of eight- 
een summers returned to the old hearth-stone, and 
was fortunate in securing a lucrative situation as 
teacher of drawing in one of the boarding-schools of 
his native city. And now the old drama in which 
the poet-painter was to take his part was enacted 

anew. Annie D , a boarder in the academy 

where he professed drawing, was, we are told, " fair, 
bright-eyed, full of the fresh beauty of seventeen, 
artless, innocent and pure-minded." Her teacher, 
only one year her senior, forgot the grave moral of 
the histor}^ of the tutor Abelard and the pupil Eloise; 
and, day after day, a deep ardent passion grew 
within his breast and ripened into a love strong and 
abiding, which on the part of Annie was recipro- 
cated. Many a sunny morn and dewy eve saw the 
young artist and his plighted Annie, as they went 
their way to the favorite trysting place on the flowery 



84 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

banks of the Nore, ostensibly for the purpose of 
sketching landscape views, but in reality to talk of 
love, which is closely connected with, and always 
had the greatest influence on, the fine arts of paint- 
ing and poetry. 

Of the many effusions to the idol of his heart, 
space will permit us to select only one, and that 
must be very short: 

I thank thee, high and holy pow'r, 

That thus upon my natal hour, 
Thy blessed bounty hath bestowed 

More than to mortal life is owed. 

If thy dispensing hand had given 
All other joys this side of heaven; 

The monarch's crown, the hero's crest, 
All honors, riches, powers, the best, 

And Anna's love, away the while, 
I'd change them all for Anna's smile. 

Annie's father, a country squire, hearing of his 
daughter's attachment, took means af <?utting off all 
communication between the lovers; but "love that 
laughs at locksmiths " soon found means of evading 
the vigilance of the squire, and correspondence was 
kept up until Annie was removed from the boarding 
school and forced to return the miniature, letters and 
poems of her lover. The poor girl brooded over the 
passion of her heart until it sapped her vitality, 



JOHN BANIM. 85 

and, as her father was unrelenting in his determina- 
tion that she should never see John Banim, she died 
in despair and of a broken heart. 

Being informed of Annie's death and of her 
fidelity to him during so trying and painful a sepa- 
ration, the noble-hearted painter was inconsolable. 
Being too poor to hire a vehicle, he started on foot 
for the home of his affianced, some twenty miles 
distant. It was a cold, rainy November day, and 
when he reached the corpse of his beloved that night 
he felt footsore, weary and wet. Entering the house 
he gazed silently on the pallid cheek and shrunken 
form which once seemed so beautiful to him. That 
warm heart and lively, laughing eye were now stilled 
in death. The agony which his features betrayed, as 
he stood there beside the bier, attracted attention, and 
revealed the lover of the deceased girl. Her sister, re- 
cognizing Banim, rudety ordered him from the house. 
He retired to an outhouse, where he fell into a dreamy 
stupor, which lasted until the funeral cortege was 
formed next morning. He had not tasted a morsel 
since the preceding morning; but grief had banished 
all cravings of hunger, and he only looked for the 
privilege of seeing his Annie once more before the 
coffin-lid closed forever on her cherished form. He 
followed the hearse to the churchyard, saw the last 
sod placed over her grave, and then, the mourners 
having departed, cast himself almost unconscious on 



86 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

the mound that marked the final resting-place of all 
that was dearest to him on earth. How long he 
remained in this position no one knows. Next day 
his brother found him some distance from Kilkenny, 
in a half conscious state, and prostrate, almost, in 
body and mind. The stamina of life was buried 
with his first love, ambition fled, and his taste for 
literature and painting lay dormant for a long time. 

After a j^ear of prostration and pain, Banim's 
health returned, and with it his love of literature. 
Like Gerald Griffin, he first became a contributor 
and then editor of a local newspaper, the Leinster 
Gazette. Finding this position ill suited to his taste 
and independent spirit, he moved to Dublin in 1820, 
where he wrote not only for the metropolitan press, 
but also for several country papers. Here he became 
acquainted with Charles Philips, the poet and orator, 
who had then published his poem entitled " The 
Emerald Isle," also with Shiel, William Curran and 
Lord Cloncurry. To the latter he dedicated his first 
long poem, "The Celt's Paradise,"' for which he 
obtained £20 from Warren, the publisher, of Bond 
street, London. 

This successful adventure in the region of litera- 
ture prompted the young artist, like Lover and 
Hazlitt, to relinquish the brush for a mightier 
instrument, and to launch into the literary ocean. 
At his very outset he wrote the tragedy, " Damon 



JOHN BANIM. 87 

and Pythias, " which his fellow-countryman, Mac- 
read}^ the " reformer of the stage," produced at 
Covent Garden Theatre in May, 1821. This being a 
complete success, like Lord Byron, Banim might 
have said: " I rose next morning a famous man." 
In London he conceived the idea of rivalling Scott 
as a novelist, and for that purpose entered into 
partnership with his brother Michael, to whom he 
wrote the following instructive letter, which we give 
here, hoping it may be of some value to the young 
readers who aspire to " literary distinction : 

"London, May 2d, 1824. 

" My Dear Michael — I have read attentively, and with the 
greatest pleasure, the portion of the tale you sent me by 

J. H . So far as it goes, I pronounce that you have been 

successful. Two of the personages do not stand out sufficiently 
from the canvas. Aim at distinctness and at individuality of 
character. Open Shakespeare, and read a play of his; then 
turn to the list of dramatis personae and see and feel what he 
nas done in this way. 

" Of a dozen characters, each is himself alone. Look about 
you; bring to mind the persons you have known; call them up 
before you; select and copy them. Never give a person an 
action to do who is not a legible individual. Make that a rule, 
and I think it ought to be a primary rule with novel writers. 

" Suppose one was to get a sheet of paper, draw up thereon a 
list of persons, and after their names write down what kind of 
human beings they shall be, leaving no two aHke, and not one 
generalized or undrawn. After Shakespeare , Scott is the great 
master-hand of character, and hence, one of his sources of great 



88 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

power. To show you clearly what I mean, not a creature we 
ever met in our father's penetralia resembled the other. There 
might be somewhat of a conventional, outward similarity, 
arising from their pursuits, habits and amusements being 
similar; but each was, notwithstanding, distinct. 

" I think that, in writing a tale, eveiy character in it should 
be drawn from nature. It is impossible all should be absolute 
originals. Human nature being the same in all ages, and in all 
climes, it cannot be hoped, now-a-days, that a writer can be the 
discoverer of new character. It cannot be no more than the 
same dough, somewhat differently shaped. Habits of countiy, 
habits of station, habits of any kind , will divereify ; but human 
nature is the same now as it ever was. I say one can scarcely 
draw an original character; but I say, draw like nature — no 
matter what kind of nature you draw from — provided that the 
likeness be not that of a disgusting object. After all, there is 
nothing commonplace in nature. 

" Get fourteen or fifteen of any of the persons you ever knew, 
put them into scenes favorable to their peculiarities — their 
individualities can be exemplified without straining after the 
point; in proper situations set them talking for themselves; by 
their own word of mouth they will denote their own characters 
better than any description from pen. Thus will you dramatize 
your tale, and faithful drama is the life and soul of novel- 
writing. Plot is an inferior consideration to drama, though 
still it is a main consideration. 

' ' A few words more as to the mode of studying the art of 
novel- writing. Read any first-i-ate production of the kind, 
with a note-book. When an author forces you to feel with him, 
or whenever he produces a more than ordinaiy degree of pleas- 
ure, or when he startles you, stop and try to find out how he 



JOHN BANIM. 89 

has done it; see if it be by dialogue or by picture, or by descrip- 
tion, or by action. Fully comprehend his method, his means 
for the effect, and note it down. Write down all such impres- 
sions. Enumerate these and see how many go to make the 
combined interest of one book. Observe, by contrasting char- 
acters, how he keeps up the balance of the familiar and the 
marvelous, humorous, serious and romantic. 

" This would not be imitation, it would be study — what, I 
will venture to say, great men have done with their prede- 
cessors; what painters do in the study of their art." 

" Tales by the O'Hara Family " appeared in April, 
1825, and their success was wonderful. The Press 
said the}' were admirably written; the critics that 
they were well written. Griffin, a book critic himself, 
VvTote of these tales: " I think them most vigorous 
and original things; overflowing with the very spirit 
of poetry, passion and painting. Nothing since 
Scott's first novels has equalled them." For these 
tales, the joint production of the Banim brothers, 
they were well paid, and the inducements were so 
flattering that John soon after sent to the Press 
'* The Bo3me Water," a work of three volumes, the 
sale of which was exceptionally great. John's 
trenchant pen, made smooth by the oil of his vigor- 
ous imagination and fed from the exhaustless stores of 
his knowledge, was incessantly at work in the field of 
fiction. Well has it been said: 



90 • IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Moi'ning saw him at his folios, 
Twilight saw his fingers run, 
Laboring ever, weary never 
Of the work he had begun. 

But this application, for which Banim was so 
remarkable, eventually sapped his by no means 
robust constitution, and he was obliged to seek 
relaxation and health in Boulogne where embarrass- 
ments of a pecuniary complexion soon stared him 
in the face, and his only consolation consisted in the 
remembrance of happier times and things. From 
these embarassments he was, however, soon relieved 
by the generosity of his admiring countrymen. 

A laudable movement was set on foot by his 
friend Mr. Sterling, who, writing in the London 
Times, of which paper he was editor, made a bril- 
liant and truthful appeal on behalf of his sick and 
suffering friend. The appeal was supported by other 
journals, and Banim expressed his gratitude in a 
letter to the editor of the Times. On this occasion, 
as on every other, the Irish people Were not appealed 
to in vain, and the handsome amount realized was 
a pleasing testimonial to the sick man of the appre- 
ciation and love in which he was held by them. 
Prominent in the subscription list were the names 
of Earl Grey, Sir Robert Peel, Richard Lalor Shell 
and Samuel Lover. This pecuniary assistance ena- 
bled the invalid author to pay off all the debts he 



JOHN BANIM. 91 

had unavoidably contracted, and to remain on the 
Continent for two years for the benefit of his health. 
But, alas, poor Banim! he reaped no advantage what- 
ever from his sojourn in Paris and Boulogne. His 
complaint (disease of the spine) was, by eminent 
Parisian physicians, pronounced to be incurable; 
and thus bereft of all hope he had but one wish, to 
pass the remainder of his days in his native land, 
where the kind and affectionate sympathy of rela. 
tives and friends "might gently slope his pathway to 
the grave"; and, accordingly, in answer to the urgent 
solicitation of his brother, he prepared to return 
home. In a reply he wrote to Michael, previous to 
setting out, he enclosed a poem, a few stanzas of 
which we cannot refrain from quoting, as they show 
the affectionate longing which filled his heart to reach 
once more the happy scenes of his childhood. It is 
entitled 

THE CALL FROM HOME. 

From home and hearth and garden it resounds 
From chamber stairs, and all the old house bounds, 
And from our boyhood's old playgrounds. 

* * -St -St * 

Brother, I come; you summon and I come; 
From love like yours I never more may roam — 
Yours is the call from brother and from home. 

Reaching London he rested there some days, during 
which time he was visited by many old familiar 



92 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

friends, foremost among whom was his ardent ad- 
mirer, Thomas Haynes Bayly, who was sorely 
afflicted at seeing the gifted Banim thus prostrated 
by sickness. The feeling of his heart on this occa- 
sion found expression in a poem, a stanza of which 
prefaces this article. 

Quitting London for ever he arrived in Dublin at 
the close of July, 1835; here Michael met him after 
a separation of thirteen years. This meeting between 
the two brothers was a very affecting one. We will 
let Michael tell it in his own words: *' I entered his 
room unannounced. I found him laid listlessly on 
a sofa, his useless limbs at full length, and his sunken 
cheeks resting on his pillow. I could not at once 
recognize the companion of my boyhood in the rem- 
nant I now beheld. I had been prepared to meet a 
change, but not such a change as was n,ow apparent, 
for I looked down on a meagre, attenuated, almost 
white-headed old man. We were not long, however, 
recognizing each other and renewing our old love." 
In Dublin, as in London, old and new friends gath- 
ered around Banim, and among these the Viceroy, 
the Earl of Musgrave, was most attentive and thought- 
ful in his endeavors to aid the poor, broken sufferer. 
As a graceful means of increasing his resources there 
was opened for him on July 21st a benefit at the 
Theatre Royal, Hawkins street, under the immediate 
patronage of the Lord Lieutenant; and we are told 



JOHN BANIM. 93 

by the Morning Register of the following day that 
persons of high and worthy names occupied the pri- 
vate boxes. The affair was in every sense a complete 
success. Early in the month of September Banim 
went back to his longed-for home. On his arrival in 
Kilkenny his fellow-townsmen received him with 
open arms, and presented him with an address 
expressive of the pleasure they experienced in wel- 
coming back to his native town one whose talents 
and worth reflected such credit upon all Ireland. 
Accompanying the address was a small silver snuff 
box containing a subscription of £85. 

Banim replied in words brimful of warm affection 
and ardent patriotism. Thus was Banim received 
by his admiring countrymen. 

Space will not permit us to give a detailed account 
of the events of the last seven years of his life ; suf- 
fice it to say that during that time, though suffering 
the most acute pains, he always displayed a fortitude 
and cheerfulness of spirits which, in the circum- 
stances, was truly commendable. Before he had 
been a year at home Queen Victoria bestowed a pen- 
sion on him of £150 a year. 

Never was the royal bounty more needed or more 
truly deserved; for this boon he was indebted to the 
Earl of Carlisle, aided by his early friend Richard 
Lalor Shiel. The nobleman often visited Banim, 
and was very much attracted b}^ his little daughter. 



94 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

then twelve years of age. Knowing her father's 
anxiety on her account, he obtained an additional 
pension of £40 for her benefit. Gerald Griffin, who 
was Banim's life-long friend, often visited him in his 
home by the Nore during his illness, and spent many 
a pleasant hour talking with the novelist on literary 
topics. These two gifted authors in some respects 
resembled one another, not so much in their works 
as in the interior sentiments which permeate as an 
atmosphere their writings, aims and aspirations. 
Some writers there are, who, when we read their 
works, awaken in us a sentiment of admiration, 
while others elicit our esteem and love. In the latter 
category we must place John Banim and Gerald 
Griffin; and the perpetuity of their fame is, and, no 
doubt will ever be due to this benign and salutary 
influence which they exercise on the minds of their 
readers. 

Seven years had now passed since Banim's return 
to his Irish home. The malignant complaint to 
which he was a victim had much impaired his bodily 
strength, but the will and intellect remained as 
indomitable as ever until the month of June, 1842, 
when even these gave signs of waning; and late in 
the following month his brother Michael was sud- 
denly summoned to his death-bed. John was barely 
able to recognize him. Taking his hand, he gave 
one fond .long look into his face, and then with a 



JOHN BANIM. 95 

smile upon his pallid countenance, calmly and quietly 
passed away. 

He lies buried in the graveyard of the Catholic 
chapel of St. John, Kilkenny, by the side of his 
mother, whom he loved with such filial affection- 
He left surviving him his widow and an only 
daughter, Mary, whom we had occasion to allude to 
above. This child, after her father's death, was 
placed in a convent school at Waterford, under the 
special care of the sister of Richard Lalor Shiel — 
this distinguished Irishman being one of her guar- 
dians. 

She was then a very lovely girl, full of talent, full of 
endearing affection, and gave promise of doing credit 
to her father's name. But, alas ! in February, 1844, 
she showed symptoms of chest disease, which were 
at first thought lightly of, but which soon took the 
form of that insidious disease, consumption, which 
has no pity for " blue eyes and golden hair." In the 
June following she fell a victim to it in the eight- 
eenth year of her age, and her cofiin was placed on 
the yet sound timber encasing her father's remains. 

On the death of John Banim's daughter, Sir Rob- 
ert Peel performed one of those acts which, whether 
it proceeded from feelings or policy, was none the less 
praiseworthy. At the solicitation of a committee of 
twenty-one gentlemen representing all shades of 
political opinion, he placed Mrs. Banim on the 



96 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

pension list. Among the distinguished men who took 
up Mrs. Banim's case we notice the names of Daniel 
O'Connell, Smith O'Brien, Isaac Butt, Charles Lever, 
Thomas Davis, William Carleton, Charles Gavan 
Duffy, Thomas MacNevin, and others. 

We desire, ere closing, to say a few words about 
John Banim's writings. By himself, as well as in 
conjunction with his brother, he wrote much. His 
principal works were "Tales by the O'Hara Family," 
" The Peep o' Day," "The Denounced; or the Last 
Baron of Crana," "The Conformist" and " The Boyne 
Water." Especially on those mentioned will his fame 
as a novelist rest. In them he has portrayed his 
country in the colors of truth; delineated without 
concealment or exaggeration its national character; 
sketched its peasantry as they really are, blending 
the charms of truth with the creations of a powerful 
fancy, and directing all to the noble purpose of ele- 
vating the national character, and vindicating a too 
long neglected and oppressed land. In this Banim 
has shown himself a benefactor of his country, and 
for this very reason his name and fame shall live in 
the memory of his countrymen as long as gratitude 
and love are ranked as virtues among men. His 
poems, though few, are worth}'^ of his genius. 

The following paragraph, which refers in compli- 
mentary terms to Duffy's collection of Irish ballads 
in general, and to our author's "Soggarth Aroon " in 



JOHN BANIM. 97 

particular, is taken from Cockburn's '* Life of Lord 
Jeffrey": 

' ' I read a very interesting little volume of ' Irish Ballad 
Poetry,' published by that poor Duffy of the Nation, who died 
so prematurely the other day. There are some most pathetic, 
and many most spirited, pieces, and all, with scarcely an excep- 
tion, so entirely national. Do get the book and read it. I am 
most struck with ' Soggarth Aroon,' after the two first stanzas; 
and a long, racy, authentic, sounding dirge for the Tyrconnel 
Princes. But you had better begin with ' The Irish Emigrant ' 
and ' The Girl of Loch Dan,' which immediately follows, which 
will break ^-ou in more gently to the wilder and more impas- 
sioned parts. It was published in 1845, and as a part of 
'Duffy's Library of Ireland.' You see what a helpless victim 
I still am to these enchanters of the lyre. I did not mean to 
say but a word of this book, and here I am furnishing you with 
extracts. But God bless all poets ! and you will not grudge them 
a share even of your Sunday benedictions." 

This is an excerpt from a letter written by the 
great reviewer to Mrs. Empson. 

SOGGARTH AROON. 

Am I the slave they say, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 
Since you did show the way, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Their slave no more to be 
While they would work with me 
Ould Ireland's slavery, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 



98 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Why not her poorest man, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Try and do all he can, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Her commands to fulfil 
Of his own heart and will 
Side by side with you still 

Soggarth Aroon? 

Loyal and brave to you, 

Soffo^arth Aroon, 
Yet be no slave to you, 

Soggarth Aroon, — 
Nor, out of fear to you — 
Stand up so near to you — 
Och ! out of fear to you! 

Soggarth Aroon! 

Who, in the winter's night, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
When the could blast did bite, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Came to my cabin-door, 
And, on my earthen-flure , 
Knelt by me, sick and poor, ' 
Soixs^arth Aroon ? 



Who, on the marriage-day, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Made the poor cabin gay, 

RrvrrnrQ v+ n A vnnn— — 



Sosffarth Aroon- 

OO 



JOHN BANIM. 99 

And did both laugh and sing 
Making our hearts to ring, 
At the poor christening, 
Soggarth Aroon ? 

Who, as friend only met, 

Socforarth Aroon, 
Never did flout me yet, 

Socforarth Aroon ? 
And when ray hearth was dim, 
Gave, while his eyes did brim. 
What I should give to him, 

SoGfCfarth Aroon ? 

Och! you, and only you, 

Soggarth Aroon! 
And for this I was true to you, 

Soggarth Aroon; 
In love they'll never shake, 
When for ould Ireland's sake 
We a true part did take, 

Soggarth Aroon! 

HE SAID THAT HE WAS NOT OUE BROTHER.* 

He said that he was not our brother — 

The mongrel ! he said what he knew — 
No, Eire! our dear Island-mother, 

He ne'er had his black blood from you ! 
And what though the milk of your bosom 

Gave vigor and health to his veins — 
He tvas but a foul foreign blossom 

Blown hither to poison our plains ! 



* The Duke of Wellington. 



100 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

He said that the sword had enslaved xis — 

That still at its point we must kneel, 
The liar! — though often it braved us, 

We cross'd it with hardier steel ! 
This witness, his Richard — our vassal! 

His Essex — whose plumes we trod down! 
His Willy — whose peerless sword-tassel 

We tarnish'd at Limerick town! 

No! falsehood and feud were our evils, 

While force not a fetter could twine — 
Come Northmen, — come Normans,— come Devils! 

We gave them our Sparth to the chine ! 
And if once again he would try us. 

To the music of trumpet and drum, 
And no traitor among us or nigh us — 

Let him come, the Brigand! let him come! 

AILLEEN. 

'Tis not for love of gold I go, 

'Tis not for love of fame; 
Though fortune should her smile bestow, 

And I may win a name, 

Ailleen, 

And I may win a name. 

And yet it is for gold I go, 

And yet it is for fame, 
That they may deck another brow, 

And bless another name, 

Ailleen , 

And bless another name. 



JOHN BANIM. 101 



For this, but this, I go — for this 

I lose thy love awhile ; 
And all the soft and quiet bliss 

Of thy young, faithful smile, 
Ailleen, 

Of thy young, faithful smile. 

And I go to brave a world I hate, 

And woo it o'er and o'er, 
And tempt a wave, and try a fate 

Upon a stranger shore , 

Ailleen, 

Upon a stranger shore. 

Oh, when the bays are all my own, 

I know a heart will care ! 
Oh, when the gold is wooed and won, 

I now a brow shall wear, 

Ailleen, 

I know a brow shall wear! 

And when with both returned again, 

My native land to see, 
I know a smile will meet me there, 

And a hand will welcome me, 
Ailleen, 

And a hand will welcome me! 



102 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS; 



THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. 

You know it, now — it is betray' d 

This moment, in mine eye — 
And in my young cheek's crimson shade, 

And in my whisper'd sigh. 
You know, now — yet listen, now — 

Though ne'er was lieart more true. 
My plight and troth, and virgin vow, 

Still, still I keep from you, 

Ever — 

Ever, until a proof you give 

How oft you've heard me say 
I would not even his empress live, 

Who idles life away, 
Without one effort for the land 

In which my fathers' graves 
Were hollow'd by a despot hand 

To darkly close on slaves — 

Never ! 

See! round yourself the shackles hang^ 

Yet come you to love's bowers. 
That only he may soothe their pang, 

Or hide their sting in flowers. 
But try all things to snap them, first, 

And should all fail, when tried, 
The fated chain you cannot burst 

My twining arms shall hide, 

Ever. 



REV. CHARLES P. MEEHAN, 

PRIEST AND HISTORIAN. 

^M^N the columns of the Dublin Nation for October 
§fe 29th, 1842, there appeared a paragraph among 
answers to correspondents which read thus: 

' ' Clericus, who offers us the option of inserting or burning 
his verses, does himself an injustice. They are most admirable, 
and will appear in our next number." 

The verses alluded to by the editor of the Nation 
were written by the subject of this biographical 
sketch, and appeared according to promise on 
November 5th, in the Poet's Corner, under the 
title of 

BOYHOOD'S YEARS. 

Ah! why should I recall them — the gay, the joyous years, 
Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimra'd by sorrow and by tears ? 
Or why should mem'ry love to trace youth's glad and sunlit way, 
When those who made its charms so sweet are gathered to decay ? 
The summer's sun shall come again to brighten hill and tower — 
The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy 

shower — 
But all in vain will mem'ry strive ; in vain we shed our tears — 
They're gone away and can't return — the friends of boyhood's 

years ! 

Ah! why then wake my sorrow, and bid me now count o'er 
The vanished friends so dearly prized — the days to come no 

more — 

(108) 



104 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms knew, 
Nor reck'd we of the pleasures that with each moment flew ? 
Tis all in vain to weep for them — the past a dream appears; 
And where are they — the lov'd, the young, the friends of 
boyhood's years ? 




Go, seek them in the cold churchyard— they long have stol'n to 

rest; 
But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne'er 

oppress'd ; 
Life's sun for them in splendor set — no cloud came o'er the ray 
That lit them from this gloomy world upon their joyous way, 
No tears about their graves be shed — but sweetest flowers be 

flung, 
The fittest offering thou canst make to hearts that perish 

young— 
To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopes and 

feare; 
For bless'd are they who pass away in boyhood's happy years ! 



REV. C. P. METEHAN. 105 

These lines need no comment; they speak for 
themselves. We only regret that he has not written 
more poetry. For, though he devoted most of his 
time to prose writing, he was a genuine poet, and 
would have found the ascent to Parnassus both easy 
and pleasant. If he has not contributed largely to 
the poetic literature of his native land, however, 
he has assisted very materially, and encouraged and 
inspired many of those whose names are to-day dear 
to the lovers of Irish ballad-poetry. He was the 
intimate and dearly-beloved friend of Mangan and 
McGee, the benefactor of "Leo" and "Caviare." 
McGee's last letter was written to Father Meehan, 
the friend and counsellor of his youth. With all the 
ardor of his Catholic heart he loved the patriotic 
priest who wrought so zealously to rescue from 
oblivion the records of Erin's elder days. 

Mangan this good priest admired and consoled 
while living, and defended when dead from the 
aspersions of his enemies. Poor Mangan, who was, 
indeed, a veritable poet — one who ranks among the 
best of his time — dined with Father Meehan when- 
ever he chose to do so; and when the memory of 
the former was assailed by a Dublin essayist about 
five years ago, Father Meehan wrote the following 
letter to a literary friend: 

" Deae Friend: — Let me tell you that it would be impossible 
to find here a single being, my unfortunate self excepted, who 



106 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

knew Mangan personally. Poor fellow! he did occasionally 
take what he ought not to have taken. A spoonful of wine or 
whisky upset his nervous system. 

' ' Mangan, be his faults what they may have been, was a pure 
man, never lowering himself to ordinaiy debaucheries or sen- 
suality of any sort. He prayed, heard Mass almost every day, 
and occasionally knelt at the altar rail. He dined with me 
when he liked; and I never heard him say a word that was not 
worth remembering." 

This loyalty to the "friend of his early days" is 
much to be admired. Faithful was he to the 
memory of the Young Irelanders unto death. Dur- 
ing the Fenian epoch, he was the patron of the 
short-lived but brilliant lyrist, John K. Casey, who 
has left us among his writings a poem descriptive of 
the incident which led Father Meehan to write his 
magnum opus, "The Fate and Fortunes of the Earls 
of Tyrone and Tyrconnell." 

While Father Meehan was a student in Rome he 
happened one day in the vicinity of St. Isidore, and 
there discovered the final resting place ^of Hugh 
O'Neill and Rory O'Donnell. There and then the 
gifted Irish Levite commenced those researches to 
which the literature of Ireland owes so very much. 

This historical episode is thus woven into verse: 

'Twas summer time long years ago, 

Where shone the skies of Italy, 
And Tiber's waters calmly flow 

Far westward to the sun-lit sea. 



EEV. C. P. MEEHAN. 107 

Amid the Roman city's crowd, 

Montorio's arches darkly loom, 
And, in their shade, with forehead bowed, 

An Irish boy knelt by a tomb. 

He read the names above the clay: 

He asked — ' ' What led their footsteps here 

From Irish hills far, far away, 
To find an exile's lonely bier?" 

' ' O Pilgrim ! in this cold clay rest 

Two chiefs of distant Innisfail, 
O'Donnell, of the peerless crest. 

And Ulster's prince, great Hugh O'Neill. 

"They fled their land — then all is dim; 

Their after fate none now may tell: 
They faded from the earth s wide rim 

The day they bade their homes farewell." 

Up rose the y»uth, with steady eye 

And heart in resolution strong — 
He prayed a prayer to God on high 

To save the just and right the wrong. 

Leaf after leaf, as years passed on, 

He added to the record frail; 
Leaf after leaf, till years were gone 

With Time's swift wing to fill the sail. 

Now — now the hope 's fulfilled at last, 
The path is traced — the work is done; 

The stars shine through the misty past — 
The fiofht 'p-ainst darkness fousrht and won. 



103 liilSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

"Caviare," (John Francis O'Donnell) also was a 
steadfast admirer of our gifted author. Among the 
published poems of that talented young man, who 
perished all too soon for his fame, we find one 
entitled *' Reminiscences of a day in Wicklow," in 
which Father Meehan is thus apostrophised: 

O, friend of the radiant, lucent mind 

And boundless charity of heart, 
As through the hills we climb and wind, 

See the red deer leap up and start 

Out in the sun — that we mnst part, 
Flings sadness on this tender morn, 

A lengthening shadow on the path 
That flows in curious maze between 

The wildwood and the rath. 

The author of these lines cast into verse some of 
the striking parts of Meehan's "Rise and Fail of the 
Franciscan Monasteries" also, and furnished the 
poem which we find at the end of our subject's chief 
work. 

Rev. Charles Patrick Meehan was born in Dublin 
on July 12th, 1812. His parents, who were from 
Ballymeehan, in the county of Leitrim, were so 
circumstanced that they could afford to give the 
future historian the best education then going. In 
his boyhood he manifested a vocation for the sacred 
ministry, and his parents sent him to the Irish 
College at Rome, then presided over by the learned 



REV, C. P. MEEHAN. 109 

Dr. Christopher Boylan. During his eight years^ 
course in the metropolis of the Christian world he 
had for professors such eminent and renowned 
scholars as Perrone, Manera and De Vico. The 
lectures of those astute professors were not lost to the 
young Irish bo}' who noted with care every salient 
point that was treated in the course of their delivery. 
His ever busy and inquiring mind sought every 
source of knowledge in the City of the Tiber; and 
even in Rome he was considered a " learned youth." 
Ordained in 1835, Father Meehan, young, active 
and zealous, returned to his native land. His first 
appointment was to the parish of Rath drum, in the 
County of Wicklow, where he devoted his leisure 
moments to the patriotic work of rescuing the 
exploits of the O'Tooles and O'Byrnes from the 
oblivion into which they were fast sinking. At the 
end of his first year in the ministry he was trans- 
ferred by Archbishop Murray to SS. Michael and 
John's, Dublin, where he remained and labored for 
fifty-four eventful years. The period of his appoint- 
ment to a curacy in his native city is remarkable in 
the annals of Irish history. The tithe question was 
then agitating the whole nation, from Malin to the 
Dursey Head. O'Connell was at the meridian of his 
fame, and that brilliant band of poets and orators^ 
who a decade of years later loomed up before the 
world as the Chiefs of the "Young Ireland" party 



110 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

were cleaving a way to prominence in their respec- 
tive localities. It was the formative period of a new 
era. 

" In Father Meehan's room," writes the reverend 
editor of the Irish Monthly, " Clarence Mangan, Flor- 
ence MacCarthy and the rest often gathered to spend 
the evenings together, with talk as a chief item in 
the entertainment — nodes atticae — with two deriva- 
tions, classical and modern, for the last epithet." 

The junior curate of SS. Michael and John's had 
doubtless been among the most eager readers of the 
"Nation^s first number," and soon his ambition might 
be expressed in the line which Goldsmith once so 
cleverly turned against Johnson: 

" Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebetur istis." 

His name was soon classed with "Desmond," 
"Terrae Filius," " Shamrock," ' Slievegullion," and 
the "Celt;" and, although his poems are few, they 
are of such high merit as to entitle him to a niche 
with the best of his contemporaries. 

Though closely allied to the editors of the Nation 
and in full sympathy with the doctrines of the 
"Young Ireland" party, only three of his poems 
appeared in the columns of the great national organ, 
"Boyhood's Years," "The Fall of the Leaves," and 



EEV, C. P. MEEHAN. Ill 

THE PATRIOT'S WIFE. 

[There is ;i tradition amongst the Swiss of tho Canton of I'ri that the 
wife of the tyrant Gesler, disgusted at the atrocities perpetrated by her hus- 
band, fled from him; and as she was of Swiss extraction, made a vow never 
to return to him. The tyrant, however, succeeded in capturing her; and the 
following verses record the dialogue which is often repeated by the Swiss 
hearth when the peasant recounts to his children the glories and achieve- 
ments of William Tell.] 

How changed thou art since last we met ! 

Thy brow is wan — thy smile is cold; 

' Stern grief her seal has on thee set — 

Thou art not what thou wert of old ! 

No joy now flashes from that eye 

Which once around shed charms of light ; 

That voice once sweet can now but sigh; 

Oh, Heavens! whence came this sudden blight! 

Say, wilt thou tell? — Great God! how strange 

That beauty thus could pass away, 
And mirth to deepest sorrow change 

More quickly than the tomb's decay ! 

Yes; tell me if the memory lives 

Of early loves and sun-bright years — 
If thought but one faint flickering gives— 

Whence all those woes and burning tears? 

Nay, do not ask — to tell were vain — 
My grief, not Heaven itself can 'suage; 

Nor seraph's breath can cool my pain. 
Nor quench my bosom's burning rage. 

My country, prey to tyrant's bands — 
Her gloiy gone — her brave ones dead— 

Her daughter slain by traitor's hands — 
And ask'st thou why my joy is sped ? 



112 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

'Fore Heaven, I prize this faded form, 

E'en in its ghastly features, more 
Than when you won it young and warm, 

And it alone to worship swore. 

For now I make thee, tyrant, tremble 

O'er all the ruin thou hast made ; 
In vain thou seekest to dissemble — 

Oh ! curse thy bloody heart and blade. 

And cui'sed may her ashes be 

Who basely sold her maiden hand 
To him who crushed our liberty. 

And drowned in blood my fatherland. 

The prose works of the patriotic priest are numer- 
ous, and of a character calculated to perpetuate his 
name and fame to many a future generation. In the 
order of time "The Confederation of Kilkenny" 
comes first. It is dedicated to Charles Gavan Duffy. 
It ranks high among the historical works of Ireland. 
He collected and edited the literary remains of his 
friends, Thomas Davis and James Clarence Mangan. 
"The History of the Rise and Fall of the Franciscan 
Monasteries in Ireland" and a " History of the Ger- 
aldines." are the work of his active brain and busy 
pen. He contributed a good deal to the periodicals 
of his day, and for many years was chief editor of 
Duffy's Irish Catholic Magazine. It was in this pub- 
lication that his longest, though by no means his 
best, poem first appeared, " The Battle of Benburb." 



REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 113 

As a linguist Father Meehan had very few super- 
iors in Ireland or elsewhere. German, French, 
Spanish and Italian were almost as familiar to him 
as his vernacular tongue, and he made good use of 
his linguistic learning. He compelled all these 
tongues to pay tribute to him during his pilgrimage 
to the celebrated libraries of Europe, in search of 
unpublished manuscripts referring to his native 
land, and the portraits of illustrious Irishmen who, 
after the Treaty of Limerick, had secured fame and 
fortune in the service of continental potentates. 

As early as 1847 he published a translation of 
" La Monaco di Monza," from the original by Magoni. 
In 1852 he rendered the Rev. Father Marchese's 
" Dominican Sculptors, Architects and Painters " 
into English. His English version of Archdeacon 
Lynch's " Life of the Right Rev. Dr. Kirwan, Bishop 
of Killala," is translated from the Latin. This book 
has improved in the translation. All these works 
met with a large sale in Ireland and America; for 
the profit he cared but little. 

From annals compiled by one John 'Toole of 
Wicklow, he wrote an excellent work on the O'Tooles 
and O'Byrnes, which is long since out of print. But 
his great work, as we have said before — the one on 
which his literary reputation principally rests — is 
familiarly known as the " Flight of the Earls." 

9 



114 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

For this work the reviewers had much praise. 
They spoke of it in the very highest terms. One 
Londoner wrote of it: 

"The work is big enough, with its recondite research, its 
multiplicity of invaluable documents, dug out of the strata of 
libraries and museums, obtained at no mean inconvenience or 
cost, to be reckoned worthy of the labor of a man's life. 

Sir Bernard Burke declared it to be a " most im- 
portant contribution to the best historical literature;" 
and many other critics of high repute have spoken 
of it in words of like import. 

The Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee wrote to the 
author from Montreal, Canada, under date of Febru- 
ary 27th, 1867, as follows: 

" My Dear Meehan: — Your book has reached me at last, 
and , after three days' steady reading, I have gone through it 
from cover to cover. I cannot tell you the fascination I 
found in its pages. Although I was sorry to part with Cahir 
O'Doherty, who turns out to be a poor tool, still one is compen- 
sated by the heroic firmness of the main figures, and, above all, 
by Tyrone himself. Considering the obsequiousness of the age 
which even Bacon and Raleigh bent to, I was afraid that the 
altered fortunes of the great Hugh might have broken his spirit 
and tempted him to some declaration unworthy of his great 
place in histoiy; but, thank God, there is nothing of the kind, 
and these closing scenes are really among the fairest and worth- 
iest of his whole life. * * * 

"James Duffy has done his part nobly, not only to the 
typography, but those admirable portraits. How I wish you 



EEV. C. P. MEEHAN. 115 

may be so cheered on as to take up Owen Roe ! What an 
admirable sequel it would make to this volume, which, save and 
except Prendergast's, I hold to be far and away the most valua- 
ble contribution to our historical literature for many a long day. 
If you nevei- put your pen to paper again, you may rest your 
renown on this book. It will send your name down to posterity 
with the heroes whose closing scenes it so piously records. * * 
" Yours very truly, 

" T. D. McGee. 
" Rev. C. p. Meehan, M. R. I. A.. 
Dublin, Ireland." 

Such was McGee's estimate of the work on which 
Father Meehan's renown rests. 

The reverend writer did not "take up Owen Roe." 
The duties of his sacred calling were manifold, oner- 
ous and pressing, and the vigor of youth was ebbing 
fast away; so he deemed it best to leave that work 
for younger hands. 

Towards the close of his years, Father Meehan 
lived a great deal by himself. His old friends and 
literary associates having all gone to their eternal 
home, he seemed lonely, and lived a great deal with 
God alone. Very few fully appreciated the high- 
souled, large-hearted, simple-minded priest whose 
noble life was so usefully spent in the service of God 
and his country. 

" Though an honored member of the Koyal Irish 
Academy," writes one who knew him, " he was full 
of that modesty and humility which are alike the 



116 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

atUibutes of true genius and the true priest." He 
was never of a noisy or demonstrative nature. He 
thought and felt more than he ever expressed in 
words. Well, indeed, might these lines of the Poet- 
Priest of the South be applied to that generous and 
heroic priest whose hearty without a murmur, has 
bled during many a dreary year for the miseries of 
his ill-fated country: 

Hearts that are great beat never loud ; 

They muffle their music when they come, 
They hurry away from the thronging crowd 

With bended brows and lips half dumb. 

And the world looks on and mutters: " Proud." 
But when great hearts have passed away, 

Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud. 
And in love they kneel around their clay. 

***** 

Hearts that are great are always lone, 

They never will manifest their best; 
Their greatest greatness is unknown. 

Earth knows a little — God the rest. 

John Mitchel was Father Meehan's ideal of a true 
Irish Nationalist, and between the two a lasting 
friendship existed. Devin Reilly, Father John Ken- 
yon and John Martin were also in the circle of his 
intimate friends. The portraits of these, with those 
of Hugh O'Neill, O'Sullivan Beare, Colgan, and Luke 



KEV. C. P. MEEHAN. 117 

Wadding adorned his walls and kept him company 
in his hours of loneliness. 

The latest edition of " The Poets and Poetry of 
Munster" was made by our author, and the preface 
to that very interesting little work, which is also the 
work of his fertile pen, seems to us the best, if not 
the most complete, biographical sketch of Clarence 
Mangan that has yet gone into print. 

In concluding this biographical notice of a learned 
ecclesiastic whose name is so widely known and 
respected, it is proper to say a few words about 
his personal appearance. He was very little short of 
medium height, slender in form, with a well-knit 
frame and head well poised. His mouth, while indi- 
cating sensibility of the finest cast, at the same time 
betokened that firmness of purpose which was a dis- 
tinguishing trait of the great good man. Intellectu- 
alit}' was stamped upon his finely-formed forehead; 
and his blue eyes, dreamy at times, kindled with a 
brilliant light whenever he discussed subjects con- 
genial to his exalted mind. 

In temperament he was purely Celtic — quick and 
impetuous. Next to his Breviary, which he conned 
over very carefully every day for more than fifty 
years, he loved the national poetry of Erin. His 
appreciation of a good poem was remarkably keen, 
and his criticism of a bad one telling. 



118 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

As a preacher he was eloquent, earnest and impres- 
sive. The poor of his flock he relieved to the full 
extent of his means, and loved them only as a zeal- 
ous priest can love. 

The last four lines of the following melancholy 
little poem have haunted my memory for many years, 
and will not be forgotten. There is scarcely a coup- 
let in all this exquisitely-mournful piece that is not 
worth remembering; and therefore do I give it a 
place in this brief memorial: 

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 

They are falling, they are failing, 

And soon, alas! they'll fade, 
The flowers of the garden. 

The leaves of dell and glade. 

Their dirge the winds are sincfinsf 

In the lone and fitful blast, 
And the leaves and flowers of Summer 

Are strewn and fading fast. . 

Oh, why, then, have we loved them, 
When their beauties might have told 

They could not linger long with us, 
Nor stormy skies behold ? 

Fair creatures of the sunshine, 

Your day of life is past; 
Ye are scattered by the rude winds, 

Fallen and fading fast. 



REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 11& 

And, oh! how oft, enchanted. 

Have we watched your opening bloom, 

When you made unto the day -god 
Your offerings of perfume ! 

How vain are our imaginings 

That joy will always last ! 
'Tis like to you, ye sweet things, 

All dimmed and faded fast. 

The glens where late ye bloomed for us 

Are leafless now, and lorn; 
The tempest's breath hath all their pride 

And all their beauty shorn. 

Twas ever so, and so shall be; 

By fate that doom was cast — 
The things we love are scarcely seen 

Till they are gone and past. 

Ay, 3^e are gone and faded. 

Ye leaves and lovely flowers, 
But when Spring comes you'll come again 

To deck the garden's bowers. 

And beauty, too, will cull you, 

And twine ye in her hair — 
What meeter, truer emblem 

Can beauty ever wear ? 

But never here, oh, never. 

Shall we the loved ones meet, 
Who shone in youth around us 

And, like you, faded fleet. 



120 IRISH rOETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Full soon affliction bowed them 

And life's day -dawn o'ercast; 
They're blooming now in heaven; 

Their day of fading's past ! 

Te withered leaves and flowers, 

Oh, may you long impart 
Monition grave and moral stern 

Unto this erring heart ! 

Oh, teach it that the joys of earth 

Are short-lived, vain and frail, 
And transient as the leaves and flowere 

Before the wintry gale ! 

On the 14tli of March, 1890, Rev. Father Meehan 
died at the rectory, in Exchange street, Dublin, 
where he had labored so long, and his final resting 
place on earth is Glasnevin, which enslirines all that 
is mortal of many of his illustrious countrymen. 

Of his ability as a historian he has left us palpable 
and ample proof. 

Had the more serious obligations ofv his sacred 
calling permitted him to woo the muses more, he 
would have been equally successful as a poet. That 
he was one is amply attested by the poems pub- 
lished with this biography. 



KEV. C. P. MEEHAN. 121 

THE BATTLE OF BENBURB. 

[About the end of May, 1646, Owen Eoe O'Neill, at the head of five thou- 
sand foot and five hundred horse, approached Armagh. Monroe, ^vho was 
then stationed within ten miles of the city, marched thither on the 4th of 
June, at midnight, with eight hundred horse and six thousand foot. Mean- 
while, O'Neill, aware of his advance, had encamped his troops at Benburb, 
betwixt two small hills. The rear of his army was protected by a wood, and 
the right by the river Blackwater. Here Monroe determined to attack him. 
Monroe himself had passed the river at a ford near Kinard, and marched 
towards Benburb. And now the two armies met in order of battle. The 
wary O'Neill amused his enemy, during several hours, with various maneuvres 
and trifling skirmishes, until the sun, which at first had been favorable to the 
Scots, began to descend in the rear of the Irish troops, and shed a dazzling 
glare on their enemies. The Scottish General, when he perceived this 
prepared to retreat. O'Neill, however, seized the opportunity with the 
promptitude of an experienced commander, and charged the Scots and the 
British with the most determined valor, and with the result so graphically 
described by the poet.] 

Give praise to the Virgin Mother! O'Neill is at Benburb, 
The chieftain of the martial soul, who scorns the Saxon curb; 
Between two hills his camp is pitch'd , and in its front upthrown , 
The "Red Hand" points to victoiy from the standard of 

Tyrone ; 
Behind him rise the ancient woods, while on his flanlc, anear 

him, 
The deep Blackwater calmly glides and seems to greet and 

cheer him. 

'Tis a glorious morn in glowing June! against the sapphire sky. 
Bright glancing in the golden light the advei'se banners Hy; 
With godly boasts the Scottish host, led on by stout Monroe, 
Have crossed the main with venal swords to aid our ruthless 

foe; 
And never in sorer need than now, the steel of the hireling 

fenc'd him, 
For a dauntless Chief, and mighty host, stand in array against 

him ! 



122 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

By all the Saints, they are welcome, across the crested wave! 
For few who left Kinard this morn, ere night shall lack a grave. 
The- hour — the man — await them now, and retribution dire 
Shall sweep their ranks from front to I'ear, by our avenging fire. 
Yet on they marched in pride of heart — the hell-engendered 

gloom 
Of the grim, predestin'd Puritan impels them to their doom. 

A thrilling charge their trumpets blow, but the shout — " O'Neill' 

aboo!" 
Is heard above the clarion call, — ringingthe wild woods through • 
" On," cries Lord Ardes, "On, Cunninghame! Forward with 

might and main!" 
And the flower of Scottish chivalry come swooping down the 

plain. 
Fiercely they dash and thunder on, — as the lathful waves come 

leaping 
Toward Rathlin gray on a wild March day, when v/estern 

winds are sweeping. 

Now, where are thy hardy kerne, O'Neill? oh, whither have 

they fled ? 
Hurrah! that volley from out the brakes hath covered the 

sward with dead. ' ^ 

The horses rear, and in sudden fear, the Scottish warriors flee, 
And the field is dyed with a crimson tide from their bravest 

cavalry ! 
All praise to the Right-protecting God, who guards his own in 

danger, 
Non6 fell save one of the Irish host by the gun of a baffled 

stranger. 



REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 123 

" On to the charge!" cries fierce Monroe ,—" Fear not the bush 

and scrog — 
Nor that the river bound your right, and your left be flanked 

with bog." 
And on they come right gallantly ; but the Fabius of the West 
Receives the shock, unmoved as a rock, and calm as a lion at 

rest ; 
The red artillery flashes in vain, or standeth spent and idle. 
While the war-steeds bound across the plain, and foaming 

champ the bridle. 

From the azure height of his realm of light the sun is sinking 

low, 
And the blinding gleams of his parting beams dazzle the chafing 

foe; 
And Owen's voice, like a trumpet note, rings clear through the 

serried i^anks: 
" Brave brothers in arms, the hour has come, give God and the 

Virgin thanks! 
Strike home to-day, or heavier woes will crush our homes and 

altars ; 
Then trample the foeman in his blood, and curst be the slave 

who falters!" 

A wild shout rends the lurid air, and at once from van to rear, 
Of the Irish troops each soldier grasps his matchlock , sword or 

spear ; 
The chieftains haste their steeds to loose, and spring upon their 

feet. 
That every chance be thus cut off', of a coward's base retreat. 



124 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And, " Onward! Forward!" swells the cry, in one tumultuous 

chorus, 
By God and the Virgin's help, we'll drive these hireling Scots 

before us!" » 

'Tis body to body with push of pike — 'tis foe confronting foe ; 
'Tis gun to gun and blade to blade — 'tis blow returning blow. 
Fierce is the conflict, — fell the strife; but Heaven defends the 

right. 
The Puritan's sword is broken, and his army put to flight. 
They break away in wild dismay, while some, to escape the 

slaughter, 
Plunge panting into the pui-ple tide that dyes the dark 

Blackwater. 

May Mary, our Mother, be ever praised, for the battle fought 

and won! 
By Irish hearts and Irish hands, beneath that evening sun. 
Three thousand two hundred and forty foes lay dead upon the 

plain, 
And the Scots bewailed of their noble chiefs. Lord Blaney 

among the slain. 
And ever against a deadly foe no weaponed hand shall falter, 
But strike, as the valiant Owen Koe, for home, and shrine, and 

altar ! 



^.^ 





FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 

iHE subject of this sketch derives his origin 
from the most illustrious house in the history 
of his native land. The name alone brings to every 
mind well versed in the annals of Erin a long list of 
great deeds, coupled with constant fidelity to the 
cause of faith and fatherland. 

This poet and litterateur, Fitz- James O'Brien, was 
born in the County of Limerick, early in the year of 
our Lord 1828, of parents who were neither poor nor 
wealthy. His father, an Irish barrister, took a 
special interest in the future bard, and devoted much 
of his leisure time in ''teaching the young idea how 
to shoot," and instilling into the gifted mind of 
Fitz-James that love of philosophy and poetry which 
distinguished him afterwards in the world of letters. 
His mother was a lady of superior talent and refine- 
ment, much beloved by rich and poor alike for her 
piety and benevolence. From her, it is said, he 
inherited those traits of kindness and uprightness 
that characterized every act of his checkered career. 

Having completed his primary education at home 
and become proficient in the classics, he entered 
Trinity College, Dublin, where he evinced great 

(125) 



126 



IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



aptitude for literature, and acquired that solid and 
complete education which stood to him so well in 
the battle of life, and made him a remarkable man 
among the literar}^ characters of the day. 




While yet attending the College of " Old Trinity," 
and during his second summer vacation, he visited 
the places of interest along the sea-coast of the 
County Cork, and spent some da3^s in the vicinity 
of Loch Ine — Lake of the Ivy — near the town of 
Baltimore, where he wrote that oft-quoted, much 
admired and beautiful ballad bearing the title " Loch 



FITZ-JAMES o'BRIEN. 127 

Ine." This is a picturesque salt-water lake south of 
Skibbereen, whose shores are dotted with the ivy- 
clad walls of many an ancient castle: 

LOCH INE. 

I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break, 

And softly fall on the silver sand ; 
And no steps intrude on that solitude, 
' And no voice, save mine, disturbs the strand. 

And a mountain bold, like a giant of old. 

Turned to stone by some magic spell, 
Uprears in might his misty height , 

And his craggy sides are wooded well. 

In the midst doth smile a little isle, 

And its verdure shames the emerald's green; 

On its grass_y side, in ruined pride, 
A castle of old is darkling seen. 

On its lofty crest the wild cranes nest. 
In its halls the sheep good shelter find ; 

And the ivy shades where a hundred blades 
Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined. 

That chieftain of old , could he how behold 

His lordly tower a shepherd's pen, 
His coi-pse, long dead, from its narrow bed 

Would rise, with anger and shame, again. 

'Tis sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays 
Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave; 

But 'tis sweeter far when the evening star 
Shines like a smile at Friendship's grave. 



128 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

There the hollow shells, through their wreathed cells, 

Make music on the silent shore, 
As the summer breeze, through the distant trees, 

Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er. 

And the sea- weed shines, like the hidden mines, 

Or the fairy cities beneath the sea, 
And the wave-washed stones are bright as the thrones 

Of the ancient Kings of Araby. 

If it were my lot in that fairy spot 

To live forever and dream 'twere mine. 

Courts might woo, and kings pursue, 
Ere I would leave thee, loved Loch Ine 

This magnificent poem has been published anony- 
mously in the national school series of his native 
land, and is as familiar to his countrymen as their 
matin prayer. It also appears anonymously at page 
21, Vol. 1, of the "Ballads of Ireland," collected and 
edited by Edward Hayes some thirty-five years ago, 
and published by Duffy and Sons, Dublin. 

The second volume of the same excellent work 
contains another of Mr. O'Brien's early poems 
named " Irish Castles," printed under the head of 
"Miscellaneous Poems," and without the author's 
name. 

Having completed his curriculum in the great 
university of the Irish metropolis, young O'Brien 
received a considerable sum of money left him by 
the will of his lately deceased father, and emigrated 



FITZ-JAiAIES O'BKIEN. 129 

to London in the fall of 1850; and there, report has 
it, disburdened himself of the greater part of his 
inheritance. Through the influence of Dr. Collins, 
he obtained from his distinguished countryman, Dr. 
R. Shelton Mackenzie, letters of introduction to 
prominent literary men in the United States, and, 
with these in his pocket as his only capital, Fitz- 
James O'Brien, young and buoyant with hope, sought 
the shores of the New World whither so many of his 
countr^^men had gone before. 

With the summer of 1852 he arrived in New 
York, where thenceforth he followed journalism as a 
profession, and secured for his friends and fellow- 
workers such men as John Brougham, Thomas B. 
Aldrich, Frank H. Bellew, Frank Wood, Edward F. 
Mullen, Stephen Fiske, Arnold, and the gifted, genial 
Ned Wilkins. 

His first engagement in the great American me- 
tropolis was on the Lantern, published by Brougham. 
In a very short space of time the products of his 
fertile pen found a ready market, and the Wliig 
Review, Harper's Magazine, the Home Journal Q,Jid 
Neiu York Times sought with avidity ever}^ article 
that came from his pen. 

He was a regular contributor to Harper's Magazine^ 
and one of the most valued members of the staff. 
His connection with that periodical dates from 

lO 



130 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

February, 1853; and between that issue and the 
time of his death in 1862, his prolific genius may 
be traced through the most interesting pages of the 
monthly. His last contribution appeared in it in 
1864, two years after poor O'Brien was laid in his 
final resting-place. 

The greatest and best ode of our century was writ- 
ten by him on the death of the famous Arctic Ex- 
plorer, Dr. Kane, and first appeared in Harper^s 
Weekly, whence it was reproduced in almost every 
paper of note throughout the whole extent of the 
Republic. We reprint it here to give the readers a 
concept of our author's mastery over ideas and lan- 
guage: 

KANE. 
J. 

Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag, 

Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole, 

Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 

Around the secret of the mystic zone, 

A mighty nation's star-bespangied flag 

Flutters alone ; ' v 

And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
. Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced — 

Fit type of him, who, famishing and gaunt, 

But with a rocky pui-pose in his soul. 

Breasted the gathering snows, 

Clung to the different floes, 

By want beleaguered , and by winter chased , 

Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 



FITZ-JAMES O'BKIEN, 131 

II. 

Not many months ago we greeted him, 
Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
Proffered it's horny hand. The large-lunged West 
From out it's giant breast 

Yelled it's frank welcome. And from main to main, 
Jubilant to the sky. 
Thundered the mighty cry. 

Honor to Kane! 

III. 

In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung 
The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
The golden wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
Scarce the buds had wilted and the voices ceased 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. 
Bright as auroral fires in southern skies, 
Faded and faded ; and the brave young heart 
That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost (^aptain, now within his breast 
More and more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victoiy; but as his grasp 
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 



132 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Death launched a whistling dart; 
And, ere the thunders of applause were done, 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late, too late, the splendid prize he won 
In the Olympic race of science and of art ! 

IV. 

Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 

Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone, 

And in the burning day 

Wastes peak by peak away, 

Till on some rosy even 

It dies with sunlight blessing it, so he 

Tranquilly floated to a southern sea, 

And melted into heaven! 

V. 

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life' 

We will not weep for him who did so well ; 

But we will gather round the hearth and tell 

The story of his strife. 

Such homage suits him well ; 

Better than funeral pomp or passing-bell ! 

VI. 

. What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice, 
With hunger howling o'er the waves of snow ! 
Niofht lengtheninof into months: the ravenous floe 
Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
Crunches his prey; the insufficient share 
Of loathsome food; 



FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 133 

The lethargy of famine ; the despair 

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued; 

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 

Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 

Glimmered the fading embers of a mind ! 

That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 

Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 

Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew — 

The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 

At first, but deepening ever till they grew 

Into black thoughts of murder — such the throng 

Of horrors round the Hero. High the song 

Should be that hymns the noble part he played ! 

Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 

To all around him, by a mighty will 

Living defiant of the wants that kill, 

Becaase his death would seal his comrade's fate ; 

Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill, 

Those polar wintere dark and desolate, 

Equal to every trial, every fate, 

He stands until spring, tardy with relief. 

Unlocks the icy gate, 

And the pale prisoners tread the world once more. 

To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore. 

Bearing their dying chief. 

vn. 

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state; 
The knell of old formalities is tolled. 
And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 



134 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTti: 

No grander episode doth chivaliy hold 
In all its annals back to Charlemagne, 
Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, 
Faithfully kept, through hunger and through cold, 
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane. 

He has written entirely about fifty poems, all or 
nearly all of which bear evidence of superior talent 
and will afford pleasure and instruction to many 
readers yet unborn. 

A writer in the New York Citizen of September 
30, 1865, referring to the dead poet, says: 

' ' Fitz-James O'Brien would have passed anywhere for a fine- 
looking man, as he cei'tainly was. His complexion was florid; 
his eyes dark blue, with a marvellously winning expression. 
His voice in speaking was the richest, the sweetest, the most 
persuasive and expressive of all the male voices I can now 
recall. It was a power in itself. I shall never forget the im- 
pression he made on a little party, one evening, by the manner 
in which he read several of Emerson's poems. He threw so 
much warmth, so much human tenderness and sympathy into 
them that we were all astonished. Then, artfully turning the 
leaves, as if still reading from the book, he recited his own 

BACCHUS. 
Pink as the rose was his skin so fair 

Round as the rosebud his perfect shape, 
And there lay a light in his tawny hair. 

Like the sun in the heart of a bursting grape. 
' ' You can fancy how we mai-veled to hear such luscious tropes 
from Emerson, and how we laughed over the deception when 
O'Brien informed us of it." 



FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 135 

O'Brien's methods of working were in no wise sys- 
tematic. He often let days and weeks pass without 
putting a pen to paper. Then, when the inspiration 
came, he wrote steadily and easily to the end, often 
without interruption. 

One who admired and appreciated him, Stephen 
Fiske, fifteen years after the death of the poet, jour- 
n^ist and soldier, speaks of him thus: 

"Fitz- James O'Brien now stands before me, and I see his 
stout, athletic figure; his broad, ruddy Irish face; his charac- 
teristic suit of that check pattern supposed to be monopolized 
by British tourists; and, indeed, in those merry Bohemian days, 
the checks he wore were the only ones he knew. * * * 
O'Brien, like most of his comrades of that brilliant coterie we 
knew and loved, died too soon for his fame. His writings were 
exquisite; but they are forgotten, except by the select few 
who collect and prize such literary gems. The war interposes 
between his fame and the present generation, like a new delugo. 
The clear, strong, sweet voice of poetry was drowned by the 
clash of resounding arms. Even as a soldier of the Union he 
fell too soon; for his memory is obscured by the holocausts of 
later but not more noble sacrifices. " 

Among O'Brien's writings are man}^ plays which 
have met with great favor in New York. For James 
W. Wallack he wrote a piece entitled, "A Gentleman 
from Ireland," which held its own on the stage for 
many 3^ears after the author was consigned to the 
grave. He possessed great dramatic power and a 
consummate knowledge of stage business, and acted 



136 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

for some time in the capacity of stage critic and 
dramatic reviewer for the New YorV Saturday Press. 

Numerous articles from his pen are scattered 
through at least fifteen different periodicals, bearing 
the stamp of originality and genius upon them. His 
poems and about thirteen of his short stories have 
been published by Osgood & Co., Boston, Mass.; but 
the book is entirely out of print now. 

A lover of liberty, equality, and the flag of his 
adopted country, he espoused the cause of the Union 
when the Civil War broke out in 1861, and, like 
thousands of his noble-hearted and enthusiastic 
countrymen, went proudly to the front. While act- 
ing on the staff of General Lander, in Virginia, he 
received a mortal wound in a skirmish with Colonel 
Ashley's command, on the 26th day of February, 
1862, and died on the 6th of April following. 

General Lander having commended Lieutenant 
O'Brien's behavior on this occasion in his dispatches 
to headquarters, General McClellan returned the 
following dispatch on the very next day"! 

" General Lander: — Please say to Lieutenant O'Brien that 
I am "much pleased with his gallantry, and deeply pained to 
hear of his wound. I tnist he will soon be well enough to give 
the cause the benefit of his services again. 

"George B. McClellan." 

He died at the house of a Mr. Thruston, in Cum- 
berland, Maryland, on the day given above, and his 



FITZ-JAMES BKIEN, 



137 



remains were brought to New York by his numerous 
friends and associates, for interment in Greenwood 
Cemetery, where he sleeps the sleep that knows no 
waking. 

He gave to his adopted land the products of his 
gifted mind to enrich her literature and exalt her 
name; with all the fervor and fidelity of his generous 
and heroic race, he championed her cause and laid 
down his life on the field of battle to maintain the 
integrity of her government. 

IRISH CASTLES. 

Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire; 

Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; 
But don't come too near, or your glances so shining. 

Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree! 

"Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly they're burning. 
There's a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees, 

And a house on the bank, quite as big as the -squire's — 
Who knows but some day we'll have something like these ? 

" And now there's a coach and four galloping horses, 

A coachman to drive, and a footman behind; 
That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage. 

And dash through the sti^eets with the speed of the wind." 

As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney. 
Soon quenched the turf -fire on the hollowed hearth stone: 

While mansion and carriage, in smolce-wreaths evanished, 
And left the poor dreamer dejected and lone. 



138 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Then Norah to Dermot. these words softly whisper 'd: 
" 'Tis better to strive than to vainly desire: 

And our little hut by the roadside is better 

Than palace, and servants, and coach — in the fire!" 

'Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming- 
Since Norah 's sweet counsel effected its cure ; 

For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, 
And now his snuir mansion looks down on the Suir. 




GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Feiends far away — and late exiled, 

Whene'er these scattered pages met your gaze, 
Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled^ 

The land that was your home in happier days; 

The sloping lawn, in which the tired rays 
Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood, 

The hills of Clare that in the softening haze 
Looked vapor- like, and dim the lonely wood; 

The cliff-bound Inch, the chapel in the glen, 
Where oft with bare and reverent locks we stood 

To hear th' eternal truths; the small, dark maze 

Of wild stream that clipped the bosom'd plain, 
And, toiling thro' the varied solitude. 

Upraised its hundred silvered tongues and babbled praise. 



|W|pEARLY fifty-one weary years have passed 
MkpiE away since the author of this touching stanza, 
robed in the simple habit of a Christian Brother, 
breathed forth his pure and noble spirit into the 
hands of Him who gave it; and 3^et these lines have 
as much interest for " friends far away " — the Irish 
exiles of to-day — as they had for the generation to 
which they were addressed. Still is the mere men- 
tion of " that land that was his home in happier 
days " sufficient to bring a flood of affectionate feel- 
ing to the heart of every wanderer from that gifted, 
though ill-fated isle. As gentle Gerald, with patriotic 
pride and filial devotion, looked back from the cold 

(1.39) 



140 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



land of the Briton to the " cliff-bound Inch and 
chapel in the glen," entwined with his fondest recol- 
lections, so does many a brave and loving heart to- 
day turn from distant shores to those self-same 
scenes, hallowed by a thousand memories. The feel- 
ings and affections of Gerald Grifhn were m common 




with the majority of our race, and hence it is that 
we claim for him a foremost place in these pages. 

Gerald, ninth son of Patrick Griffin, a Brunswick- 
street brewer, was born on the 12th of December, 
1803, within the old city wall of Limerick. His 
mother, who was a woman of more than ordinarv 



GERALD GKIFFIN. 141 

taste and refinement, placed the future poet and nov- 
elist under the instruction of a certain Mr. MacEli- 
got, at that time the most learned and successful 
"hedge teacher" in Limerick county. When Mrs. 
Griffin, accompanied by an elder brother, first intro- 
duced Gerald to this wondrous pedagogue, she re- 
marked: "You will oblige me very much, Mr. Mac- 
Eligot, by paying particular attention to the boys' 
pronunciation, and making them perfect in their 
reading." The knight of the bircheii-stvitches gazed 
for a while with astonishment at her, and answering 
said : " You had better take your children home, 
madam. I can have nothing to do with them! Per- 
haps, Mrs. Griffin, you are not aware that there are 
only three persons in Ireland who know how to read." 
"Three persons!" exclaimed Mrs. Griffin. " Yes' 
madam, only three — the Bishop of Kildare, the Earl of 
Clare, and your humble servant. Reading is, indeed, 
a natural gift, not an acquirement." This was the 
man who first trained Gerald's "young idea how to 
shoot." After developing considerable talent at the 
^hool of Mr. MacEligot, young Gerald moved to a 
farm about thirty miles from the " City of the Broken 
Treaty." This homestead, beautifully situated on the 
banks of the Shannon, they called Fairy Lawn, and 
here a tutor was secured, under whose guidance and 
instruction young Griffin became familiar with the 
best authors in English literature, and cultivated a 



142 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

taste and developed his talent for poetry. Even 
when a mere boy lie was a voracious devourer of 
books, reading everything on which he could lay 
hands, and even copying out with his ever busy pen 
whatever struck him as beautiful or beneficial. He 
transcribed almost all " Moore's Melodies " with such 
care and exactitude as to omit not even a comma. 

It is almost a truism that there were but few re- 
markable men in the world who did not draw their 
best inspirations and most salutary principles of 
morality from a good mother. Gerald's mother had 
no small influence in forming the noble character of 
her ninth son, and to the integrity of that well- 
formed character he owed most of his success in after 
life. This amiable lady is said to have been passion- 
ately fond of literature, and had an original turn of 
mind. She was well acquainted with the best works 
of English classic literature, and took great delight in 
training her children to cultivate tastes similar to 
her own in this respect. "But," says her son, "a 
sound religious instruction she considered as the 
foundation of eveiything good, and it was her con- 
stant aim to instill more strongly into the minds of 
her children that nobility of sentiment and princely 
feeling, in all transactions with others, which are its 
necessary fruits, and which the world itself, in its 
greatest faithlessness to religion, is compelled ta wor- 
ship. She would frequently, through the day, or in 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 143 

the evening, ask us questions in history, and these 
were generall}^ such as tended to strengthen our 
remembrance of important passages, or to point out 
in any historical character those traits of moral beauty 
she admired. ' Gerald, ' I have heard her ask, 
'what did Camillus say to the school-master of 
Falarii?' Gerald sat erect, his countenance glowing 
with the indignation such an act of baseness inspired, 
and repeated with energy: " 'Execrable wretch,' cried 
the Roman, 'offer thy abominable proposals to some 
creature like thyself — and not to me. What! though 
we be enemies of your city, are there not natural ties 

that bind all mankind which should never be bro- 
ken?'" 

Mr Griffin being unsuccessful in business, was in- 
duced by one of his sons, who had been an officer 
in the British army in Canada, to emigrate to 
America. About the year 1820 a portion of the 
family found a new home on the banks of the Sus- 
quehanna, Pennsylvania, and this sweet spot they 
called Fairy Lawn, after the old home in the Green 
Isle. Gerald remained in Ireland, and resided with 
his brother, a medical doctor, in Adare. There, 
among the ruins of Erin's former splendor, he conned 
over the pages of Ovid and Virgil, or feasted on the 
lyrics of Horace; and there he felt the first inspira- 
tion of the muse which he has left us in a beautiful 
poem descriptive of the scenes and objects of his love: 



144 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

AD ARE. 

Oh, sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale! 

Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendov 
Nor summer sun nor morning gale 

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 
How shall I tell the thousand charms 

Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 
Where, lulled in Nature's fostering arms 

Soft peace abides and joy excelling. 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 

The slumbering boughs your songs awaken, 
Or linger o'er the silent lawn 

With odors of the hare-bell taken. 
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 

Thy smile from far Knock Fierna's mountain, 
O'er waving woods and bounding streams. 

And many a grove and glancing fountain. 

Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there. 

When summer heats the open meadows, 
O'er parched hill and valley fair, 

All coolly lie your veiling shadows. 
Ye rolling shades and vapors grey, 

Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven. 
How soft you seal the eye of day. 

And wreath the dusky brow of even. 

In sweet Adare, the jocund spring 
His notes of odorous joy is breathing. 

The wild birds in the meadows sing; 

The wild flowers in the air are breathing. 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 145 

There winds the Mague , as silver clear 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing; 
There fragrant in the early year, 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank, 

Or dives beneath the glistening billow, 
Where graceful droop and clustering dank 

The osier bright and rustling willow. 
The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, 

In thicket lone the stag is belling; 
And sweet along the echoing vale 

The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 

His passion for literature became so strong while 
in Adare, that Gerald abandoned all idea of the 
medical craft for which his parents, even then in 
America, had destined him. His occasional contri- 
butions to the Limerick Advertiser attracted the 
notice of Mr. McDonnell, then editor and proprietor 
of that journal; and the young novelist, after a short 
apprenticeship, was placed in the editorial chair of 
the Advertiser. But the young patriotic Irishman, 
instead of adhering to Mr. McDonnell's political 
maxim to "please the Castle," ''pulled the Castle 
around that place-hunter's ears," and, in consequence, 
was obliged to beat a hasty retreat from the sanctum 
of the indignant politician. This was Gerald's start- 
ing point for fields of fame — for London — to " revo- 



146 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

lutionize the dramatic taste of the time by writing 
for the stage." But we shall not follow him at pres- 
ent to recount his trials and triumphs in the smoky 
city. We shall linger to cull a few garlands from his 
poetry, which ought to be fostered and preserved in 
the household of every true-hearted Celt. The fol- 
lowing lines never fail to awaken a responsive chord 
in every exile's bosom: 

OLD TIMES. 

Old times! old times! the gay old times! 

When I was young and free, 
And heard the merry Easter chimes 

Under the sally tree. 
My Sunday palm beside me placed, 

My cross upon my hand ; 
A heart at rest within my breast, 

And sunshine on the land! 

Old times! old times! 

It is not that my f oi'tunes flee , 

Nor that my cheek is pale ; 
I mourn when e'er I think of thee, 

My darling native vale ! 
A wiser head I have, I know, 

Than when I loitered there; 
But in my wisdom there is woe, 

And in my knowledge care. 

Old times! old times! 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 147 

I've lived to know my share of joy, 

To feel my share of pain; 
To learn that friendship's self can cloy, 

To love and love in vain; 
To feel a pang and wear a smile, 

To tire of other climes; 
To love my own unhappy Isle, 

And sing the gay old times ! 
• Old times! old times! 

And sure the land is nothing changed; 

The birds are singing still, 
The flowera are springing where we ranged, 

There's sunshine on the hill. 
The sally waving o'er my head 

Still sweetly shades my frame ; 
But oh! those happy days are fled, 

And I am not the same. 

Old times! old times! 

Oh, come again, ye meriy times! 

Sweet, sunny, fresh and calm; 
And let me hear those Easter chimes, 

And wear my Sunday palm. 
If I could cry away mine eyes. 

My tears would flow in vain; 
If I could waste my heart in sighs, 

They'll never come again! 

Old times! old times! 

This sweet, simple poem which "looks longingly- 
back to the days that are forever faded," surpasses in 
many respects that of Oliver W. Holmes on the same 



148 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

subject, so much admired and so deservedly popular. 
Once read, its euphonious measures haunt the mem- 
ory in every stage of life, and gives expression to 
that yearning for the past so common to humanity. 
Gerald Griffin's " Sister of Charity " is well known 
to most readers of poetry. 

This beautiful composition, with " O'Brazil the Isle 
of the Blest," and another equally moral, were writ- 
ten when Gerald began to see the vanity of human 
ambition, and to think seriously of embracing a reli- 
gious state of life. 

Griffin's lyrics are the best of his pieces, and his 
simple love songs are the best of all. It is believed, 
had he dovoted his muse to writing songs for the 
people, that he would be to the ''land of song" what 
Burns was to Scotland — a poet of and for the people. 
It is to be regretted that, on deciding to pursue a 
religious life, he destroyed a number of poems which 
were never published. They were, according to the 
opinion of his brother, superior to most of his pub- 
lished pieces; but he has left us enough' to establish 
his reputation as a poet whose name is not soon des- 
tined to sink into oblivion. 

In the autumn of 1823 this aspirant for literary 
laurels went to I^ondon, where he met John Banim 
and William Maginn, LL. D., the famous editor of 
Frazer's Magazine. Banim, who was then a great 
success in the literary world, became quite interested 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 149 

in Gerald, soon recognized his ability, and introduced 
him to the first literary liglits of London. In a let- 
ter to his brother, Gerald says of Banim: ''Mark 
me, he is a man — the best I have met since I left 
Ireland. We walked over Hyde Park on St. Patrick's 
Day, and renewed our home recollections by gathering 
shamrocks and placing them in our hats, even under 
the eye of John Bull." In the English metropolis, 
he was obliged to write for food instead of fame, and, 
though his tales and articles were promptly accepted 
b}^ the best magazines, payment was by no means 
prompt or liberal. Some of the best pages of the 
Literary Gazette were filled b}^ his pen, and the raci- 
est articles of the European Review emanated from 
his fertile brain. He wrote plays which were ad- 
mired; he translated Prevot's works at the rate of 
two guineas a volume, and, withal starved in a dark 
and dismal garret, where he was sought and saved 
by a kind friend. When discovered in this gloomy 
retreat he was working hard on one of his tales, 
though he had not tasted food for three days. 

But this was the dark hour which preceded the 
dawn. The day of public patronage soon shone on 
him, and success crowned his persevering toil. In 
1832 his play of " Gisippus," a tragedy in five acts, 
was performed in the Drury Lane Theatre, and 
received from both press and public a magnificent 
reception. We can best estimate the rapidity of his 



150 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

success after this by an 'extract from one of his own 
letters : — 

" Since the day I received your letter," he says to his brother, 
' ' I have achieved a multiplicity of engagements with publishers 
and periodicals. In the first place, I procured an introduction 
from Dr. Maginn to the editor of the Liieraj-y Gazette and got 
an engagement from him to furnish sketches at a very liberal 
remuneration — a guinea a page. * * * 

" Then I sent articles to the European Magazine. Here, also, 
I was successful — there was not a word of objection, and they 
have already inserted several pieces. Then I made an essay on 
one of the lions — the London Magazine — and was accepted there. 
I know not what the proceeds will be yet, but I am told by an 
old contributor that I made ' a palpable hit. ' I also got an 
engagement from the proprietor of the new Catholic newspaper, 
by which I have already made several guineas." 

Success was now at his command, but possession 
seems to have destroyed the charm; for, though he 
worked on still with characteristic determination 
and energy he wrote to his brother: — 

" I am sick and tired of this gloomy, stupid, lonely, wasting, 
dispiriting, caterpillar kind of existence, which I endure, how- 
ever, in hope of a speedy metamorphosis." 

It Avas about this time that he wrote that sweet 
pathetic little lyric, of which the following is a verse. 
It is an index to his feelings at this stage: 
Why has my soul been given 

A zeal to soar to higher things 

Than quiet rest — to seek a haven 

And fall with scattered wings ? 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 151 

Have I been blest ? the sea wave sings 
'Tween me and all that was mine own; 

I've found the joy Ambition brings, 
And walk alone — and walk alone. 

Our author's personal appearance, which was of 
the best kind, may be inferred from a description 
left by his brother, Dr. Griffin, who visited the 
novelist in London in the month of September, 
1826. " I had not seen him," says the Doctor, " since 
he left Adare, and was struck with the change in his 
appearance. All color had left his cheek, he had 
grown quite thin, and there was a sedate expression 
of countenance so unusual in one so young, and 
which afterwards became habitual to him. It was 
far from being so, however, at the time I speak of, 
and readily gave way to that light and lively glance 
of his dark eye, that cheerfulness of manner and 
observant humor, which from his very infancy had 
enlivened our fireside circle at home. Although so 
pale and thin, his tall figure, expressive features and 
profusion of dark hair thrown back over his fine 
forehead, gave an expression of a person remarkably 
handsome and interesting." 

Here it may not be out of place to mention a very 
interesting episode which gave a tinge of romance to 
the last ten or twelve years of Gerald Griffin's life. 
In Limerick he became acquainted with a certain 
gentleman and his wife, members of the Society of 



152 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Friends, and a very strong natural attachment soon 
formed between them and the amiable author of the 
"Collegians." ''The feelings of the poet towards the 
lad_y," says Mr. Giles, "though evidently of reveren- 
tial purity, were colored — nay beautified — by the 
difference of sex. His letters to her were numerous, 
eloquent and very often of an elevated character. 
His last letter, presenting her with an old desk on 
which all his literary work had been accomplished, 
was tender and musical with pathos and affection. 
Shortly after he became a monk she called upon him. 
When her name was announced he was walking in 
the garden. He turned pale, hesitated, but at last, 
though with strong emotion, refused to see her." On 
hearing of his decision, the affectionate lady burst 
into tears, for something seemed to tell her that she 
would never more see him on earth 

The "Collegians," in which he was destined to live 
a long time, was written in his 25th year, and the 
tragedy of " Gisippus " five years earlier. The stories 
which he wrote consist of three series : V Tales of the 
Munster Festivals," "Tales of the Jury Room " and 
"Holland Tide Tales." His romances are three — 
"The Duke of Monmouth," "The Invasion" and 
"The Collegians." These, with his plays and poems, 
comprise ten handsome volumes published by Sadlier 
& Co., New York. As a poet he was sensitive, sweet, 
sympathetic and simple. As a novelist he had a 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 153 

genius at the same time inventive, plastic and bold. 
His style manifests fancy in a high degree, and his 
strong natural passion betrays itself very powerfully 
in many scenes of the '' Collegians." In portraying 
Irish life, he " holds the mirror up to nature." In 
his literary career he acted in the capacity of musical 
and stage critic, was employed as Parliamentary 
reporter, and considered by many London publishers 
as a consummate literary connoisseur. 

As to his moral strength and integrity, the elo- 
quent Henry Giles says: "Perhaps no literary 
adventurer ever endured more hardships in the same 
space of time in London than did Gerald Griffin, and 
endured them with less moral injury to his personal 
or literary character. He kept himself free from all 
meanness, from low companionship, from degrading 
habits, and came out of the trial a young man with 
home-born purity unsullied, a Christian with faith 
more confirmed, a gentleman unharmed in his honor 
and refinement, a writer who won success and the 
public by his own independent genius, bearing the 
triumph with true and graceful modesty." While 
blessed with the self-reliance of Johnson, he was en- 
tirely free from the egotism of that literary lion. 
"It is strange," he was wont to say, "that I've never 
found success except where I depended solely on 
my own exertions." His motto was "death before 
failure." Though he wrote nothing so universally 



154 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

admired as tlie ''Deserted Village" or the "Vicar of 
Wakefield," he possessed nearly as much ability as 
Goldsmith, without being burdened by any of his 
defects; and, according to most writers, he was supe- 
rior both as an author and a man to Dermody and 
Crabbe. 

For some time previous to 1830 our young novelist 
entertained an idea that he was called to the priest- 
hood, and actually made preparations to enter the 
Ecclesiastical Seminary at Maynooth for that end 
In a letter to his parents, on the banks of the Sus- 
quehanna, he alludes to this matter as follows: 

" To say nothing of the arguments of faith, I do not know 
any station in life in which a man can do so much good, both 
for others and himself, as in that of a Catholic priest, and it 
gave me great satisfaction to find that my friends in America 
were of the same mind with me on this point. * * * * To 
say that Gerald, the novel writer, is by the grace of God really 
satisfied to lay aside for ever all hope of that fame for which he 
was once sacrificing health, repose and pleasure, and to offer 
himself as a laborer in the vineyard of Jesus Christ. That 
literary reputation has become a worthless trifle^to him to whom 
it was once almost all; and that he feels a happiness in the 
thought of giving all to God is such a merciful favor that all 
the fame and riches in the world dv/indle into nothing at the 
thought of it." 

The idea of becoming a priest, however, he soon 
abandoned — partly, perhaps, through motives of 
humility — and resolved to assume the humble habit 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 155 

of a Christian Brotlier. His brief career with this 
exemplary body of monks was very happy, and on 
many occasions he manifested his delight with his 
vocation. At the instance of his religious superior, 
he resumed his long-neglected pen, and was engaged 
on a religious tale, entitled "The Holy Island " when 
he was stricken down with typhus fever, of which he 
died at the North Monastery of the Brothers, in the 
City of Cork, on Friday, June 12th, 1840. In the 
little cemetery of this Monastery a simple headstone 
bearing the inscription '' Joseph " — his name in 
religion — still marks the resting-place of the author 
of the "Collegians," and invites the passing monk 
to recite a De Profundis for the soul of Ireland's 
beloved poet, reposing there in silence and solitude. 

O'BRAZIL, THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 

[A spectre island, said to be sometimes visible on the verge of the western 
■ horizou in the Atlantic, from the Isles of Arran. ] 

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, 
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; 
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 
And they called it O'Brazil — the Isle of the Blest. 
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim. 
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ; 
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, 
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away! 

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, 

In the breeze of the orient, loosened his sail; ' 



156 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, 
For though Ara was holy, O 'Brazil was blest. 
He heard not the voices that called fi'om the shore, 
He heard not the rising winds' menacing roar; 
Home, kindred and safety he left on that day, 
And he sped to O 'Brazil, away, far away! 

Morn rose on the deep , and that shadowy Isle , 
O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile ; 
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore, 
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before: 
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, 
And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; 
Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away. 

Bash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main. 
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again; 
Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss, 
To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. 
The warning of Beason was spoken in vain, 
He never re-visited Ara again; 
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray. 
And he died on the watere, away, far away! 

To you, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal 

The lessons of prudence my verses conceal ? 

How the phantom of pleasure, seen distant in youth, 

Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of truth, 

All lovely it seems like that shadowy Isle, 

And the eye of the wisest is caught by its smile; 

But ah ! for the heart it has tempted to stray 

From the sweet home of duty, away, far away! 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 157 

Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he 
Look back to green Ara, along the wild sea; 
But the wandering heart has a guardian above, 
Who, though erring, remembers the child of his love. 
Oh! who at the proffer of safety would spurn. 
When all that he asks is the will to return ? 
To follow a phantom from day unto day, 
And die in the tempest, away, far away! 

'T IS, IT IS THE SHANNON'S STREAM. 

'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream 

Brightly glancing, brightly glancing! 
See, oh see the ruddy beam 

Upon its waters dancing! 
Thus returned from travel vain. 
Years of exile, years of pain, 
To see old Shannon's face again, 

Oh, the bliss entrancing! 
Hail! our own majestic stream. 

Flowing ever, flowing ever. 
Silent in the morning beam. 

Our own beloved river! 

Fling thy rocky portals wide 

Western ocean, western ocean; 
Bend ye hills on either side, 

In solemn, deep devotion; 
While before the rising gales 
On his heaving surface sails, 
Half the wealth of Erin's vales 

With undulating motion. 



158 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Hail! our own beloved stream, 
Flowing ever, flowing ever, 

Silent in the morning beam, 
Our own majestic river! 

On thy bosom deep and wide, 

Noble river, lordly river, 
Royal navies safe might ride, 

Green Erin's lovely river! 
Proud upon thy banks to dwell, 
Let me ring Ambition's knell 
Lured by Hope's illusive spell 

Again to wander, never. 
Hail! our own romantic stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever. 
Silent in the morning beam. 

Our own majestic river ! 

Let me, from thy placid course, 

Gentle river, mighty river. 
Draw such truth of silent force, 

As sophist uttered never. 
Thus, like thee, unchanging still, 
With tranquil breast and ordered will, 
My heaven-appointed course fulfil, 

Undeviating ever ! 
Hail ! our own majestic stream 

Flowing ever, flowing ever. 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own delightful river! 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 159 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 

[Of the monuments most worthy of notice in the chapel of Malahide is an 
altar tomb surmounted with the effigy, in bold relief, of a female habited in 
the costume of the 14th century, and representing the Honorable Maude 
Plunket, wife of Sir Eichard Talbot. She had been previously married to 
Mr. Hussey, son to the Baron of Galtrim, who was slain on the day of her 
nuptials, leaving her the singular celebrity of having been " A maid, wife 
and widow, on the same day." — Dalton's History of Drogheda.'] 

The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide; 

The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side ; 

The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers. 

And the harpstrings are trembling in all the glad bowers. 

Swell, swell the gay measure ! roll trumpet and drum ! 
'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendor they come! 
The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide 
For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. 

What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight 
The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight! 
What blissful caresses shall Fortune bestow, 
Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow ! 

Before the high altar young Maud stands array 'd; 
With accents that falter her promise is made — 
From father and mother for ever to part, 
For him and no other to treasure her heart. 

The words are repeated, the bridal is done, 
The rite is completed — the two, they are one; 
The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, 
That must not be broken till life shall depart. 



160 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor that compass'd their car, 
Loud accents in anger come mingling afar ! 
The foe's on the border, his weapons resound 
Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found. 

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold. 
When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold. 
So rises already the chief in his mail, 
While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale. 

" Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, 
For the sister and mother, for children and wife! 
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, 
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!" 

Farrah ! to the battle ! they form into line — 

The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! 

Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue — 

On, burgher and yeoman, to die or to do! 

The eve is declining in low Malahide, 
The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride; 
She marks them unheeding — her heart is afar, 
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war. 

Hark! loud from the mountain, 'tis Victory's cry! 
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky ! 
The foe has retreated ! he flies to the shore ; 
The spoiler's defeated — the combat is o'er! 

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come — 
But why have they muffled the lance and the drum ? 
What form do they carry aloft on his shield ? 
And where does he tarry, the lord of the field ? 



GERALD GEIFFIN. 161 

t 



Ye saw him at morning how gallant and gay 
In bridal adorning the star of the day: 
Now weep for the lover— his triumph is sped ; 
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead! 

But, oh for the maiden who mourns for that chief, 
With heart overladen and rending with grief !' 
She sinks on the meadow — in one morning-tide, 
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride! 

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! 
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul. 
True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride; 
He died in his glory— but, oh, he has died! 

The war cloak she raises all mournfully now, 
And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow. 
That glance may for ever unaltered remain, 
But the bridegroom will never return it again. 

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, 

The death- wail is rolling along the sea-side; 

The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,. 

For the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene ! 

Ev'n yet in that valley, though years have roli'd by» 
When through the wild sally the sea-breezes sigh. 
The peasant, with sorrow, beholds in the shade 
The tomb where the morrow saw Hussey convey'd. 

How scant was the warning, how briefly reveal'd, 
Before on that morning death's chalice was fill'd! 
The hero that drunk it there moulders in gloom, 
And the form of Maude Plunket weeps over his tomb. 



12 



162 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The stranger who wandere along the lone vale 
Still sighs when he pondere on that heavy tale; 
' ' Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply — 
Thus jo_y has its measure — we live but to die!" 

WHEN FILLED WITH THOUGHTS OF LIFE'S YOUNG 

DAY. 

When filled with thoughts of life's young day, 

Alone in distant climes I roam, 
And year on year has rolled away 

Since last we view'd our own dear home, 
Oh, then, at evening's silent hour. 
In chamber lone, or moonlit bow'r, 
How sad, on memory's listening ear, 
Come long lost voices sounding near- 
Like the wild chime of village bells 
Heard far away in mountain dells. 
But, oh! for him let kind hearts grieve, 

His term of youth and exile o'er, 
Who sees in life's declining eve. 

With alter'd eyes, his native shore! 
With aching heart and weaiy brain. 
Who treads those lonesome scenes again! 
When first he knew those ruin'd bow'js, 
And hears in every passing gale 
Some best affection's dying wail. 
Oh, say, what spell of power serene 

Can cheer that hour of sharpest pain. 
And turn to peace the anguish keen 

That deeplier wounds, because in vain? 
'T is not the thought of glory won, 
Of hoarded gold or pleasures gone , 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 163 



But one bright course, from earliest youth, 
Of changeless faith— unbroken truth, 
These turn to gold the vapors dun 
That close on life's descending sun. 

FOR I AM DESOLATE. 

The Christmas light is burning bright 

In many a village pane, 
And many a cottage rings to-night 

With many a merry strain. 
Young boys and girls run laughing by, 

'J'heir hearts and eyes elate — 
I can but think on mine, and sigh, 

For I am desolate. 

There's none to watch in our old cot, 

Beside the holy light. 
No tongue to bless the silent spot 

Against the parting night, 
I've closed the door, and hither come 

To mourn my lonely fate; 
I cannot bear my own old home, 

It is so desolate ! 

I saw my father's eye grow dim. 

And clasp'd my mother's knee; 
I saw my mother follow him— 

My husband wept with me. 
My husband did not long remain— 

His child was left me yet; 
But now my heart's last love is slain, 

And I am desolate ! 



164 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

MY MARY OF THE CURLING HAIR. 
My Mary of the curling hair, 
The laughing teeth and bashful air, 
Our bridal morn is dawning fair, 
With blushes in the skies. 

Come! come! come, my darling — 
Come softly, and come, my love! 
My love ! my pearl ! 
My own dear girl ! 
My mountain maid, arise! 

Wake, linnet of the osier grove! 
Wake, trembling, stainless, virgin dove! 
Wake, nestling of a parent's love! 
Let Moran see thine eyes. 

Come, come, etc. 

I am no stranger, proud and gay, 
To win thee from thy home away, 
And find thee, for a distant day, 
A theme for wasting sighs. 

Come, come, etc. 

But we were known from infancy, 
Thy father's hearth was home to me, 
No selfish love was mine for thee, 
Unholy and unwise. 

Come, come, etc. 

And yet, (to see what love can do!) 
Though calm my hope has burned, and true. 
My cheek is pale and worn for you, 
And sunken are mine eyes! 

Come, come, etc. 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 

But soon my love shall be my bride, 
And happy by our own fii^eside; 
My veins shall feel the rosy tide 
That lingering hope denies. 

Come, come, etc. 

My Maiy of the curling hair, 
The laughing teeth and bashful air, 
Our bridal morn is dawning fair, 
With blushes in the skies. 

Come ! come ! come , my darling — 
Come softly ! and come , my love 1 
My love ! my pearl ! 
My own dear girl ! 
My mountain maid, arise! 

GILLE MA CHREE. 

Gille ma chree* 

Sit down by me ; 
We now are joined and ne'er shall sever: 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one. 
And peace is ours for ever! 

When I was poor, 

Your father's door 
Was closed against your constant lover; 

With care and pain, 

I tried in vain 
My fortunes to recover. 



165 



* Brightener of my heart. 



106 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

I said, " To other lands I'll roam, 
Where Fate may smile on me, love;" 

I said , ' ' Farewell , my own old home ! " 
And I said, " Farewell to thee, love!" 

Sing, Gille ma chree, etc. 

I might have said , 
My mountain maid, 
Come live with me , your own true lover: 
I know a spot, 
A silent cot, 
Your friends can ne'er discover. 
Where gently flows the waveless tide 

By one small garden only; 
Where the heron waves his wings so wide, 
And the linnet sings so lonely ! 

Sinjr, Gille ma chree, etc. 

I might have said, 
My mountain maid, 
A father's right was never given 
True hearts to curse 
With tyrant force 
That have been blest in heaven. 
But then I said, " In after years, 

When thoughts of home shall find her, 
My love may mourn with secret tears 
Her friends thus left behind her. " 

Sing, Gille ma chree, etc 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 167 

"Oh no," I, said; 
' ' My own clear maid, 
For me, though all forlorn for ever, 
That heart of thine 
Shall ne'er repine 
O'er slighted duty — never. 
From home and thee, though wandering far, 

A dreamy fate be mine, love — 
I'd rather live in endless war, 

Than buy my peace with thine, love." 

Sing, Gille ma chree, etc. 

Far, far away, 

By night and day, 
I toiled to win a golden treasure; 

And golden gains 

Repaid my pains 
In fair and shinins; measure. 
I sought again my native land, 

Thy father welcomed me, love; 
I poured my gold into his hand 

And my guerdon found in thee, love. 

Sing, Gille ma chree, 

Sit down by me; 
We are joined and ne'er shall sever: 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours for ever. 



168 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

A PLACE IN THY MEMORY, DEAREST. 

A PLACE in thy memory, dearest, 

Is all that I claim , 
To pause and look back when thou hearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee, nearer. 

Another may win and wear; 
I care not though he be dearer. 

If I am remembered there. 

Remember me — not as a lover 

Whose hope was cross'd. 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The light it hath lost; 
As the young bride remembere the mother 

She loves, though she never may see; 
As a sister remembei's a brother, 

O dearest ! remember me. 

Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Could'st thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee ! 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming,^ 

That never must burst upon thine; 
And Heaven, that made thee all blooming, 

Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me, then! — oh, remember, 

My calm, light love; 
Though bleak as the blasts of November 

My life may prove. 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 169 

That life will, though lonely, be sweet, 

If its brightest enjoyment should be 
A smile and kind word when we meet, 

And a place in thy memoiy. 

LINES ADDRESSED TO A SEAGULL, 

SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHER, IN THE COUNTY OF CLARE. 

White bird of the tempest! oh, beautiful thing, 

With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing 

Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high. 

Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky • 

Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form. 

Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm, 

Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, 

Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn; 

Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome. 

Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; 

Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, 

Like the spirit of charity, brooding o'er pain; * 

Now gliding with pinion, all silently furled. 

Like an Angel descending to comfort the world ! 

Thou seem'st to my spirit, as upward I gaze, 

And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays; 

Now lost in the storm-driven vapors that fly. 

Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky! 

Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith, 

'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death! 

Rise ! beautiful emblem of purity ! rise 

On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own brilliant skies 

Still higher! still higher! till lost to our sight. 

Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light; 



170 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee, 
Must long for the moment — the joyous and free — 
When the soul, disembodied from nature, shall spring, 
Unfettered, at once to her maker and king; 
When, the bright day of service and suffering past, 
Shapes fairer than thine shall shine round her at last, 
While the standard of battle triumphantly furled. 
She smiles like a victor, serene on the world! 

A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GERALD GRIFFIN, 

BY THOMAS d'aRCY M'GEE. 



[Written during the author's visit to Ireland in March, 1855.] 



When night surrounds the sun, and the day dies, 

Leaving to darkness for its hour the skies, 

Nought has the heart of man thence to deplore — 

The day lived long, was fruitful, is no more; 

But when the hurricane at noon o'erspreads 

The orb divine, which life and gladness sheds, 

Or some disorder'd planet rolls between 

The sun and earth, darkling the verdant green, 

Eclipsing ocean, shadowing like a pall 

The busy town, — men, discontented all. 

By sea and land, anxiously pause and pray 

For the returning stiver of the dav— 

So l^ave bright spirits been eclipsed and lost, 

Forever dark, if by Death's shadow cross'd. 

In Munster's beauteous city died a man 
As 'twere but yesterday, whose course began 
In clouded and in cheerless morning guise — 
Had climb'd the summit of his native skies. 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 171 

And , as he rose , brighter and fairer grew, 

Beneath his influence, every scene he knew. 

His country hail'd him as a Saviour, given 

To chronicle past times; when 'mid the heaven 

Of expectation and achievement, lo! 

A monastery's gate — therein the Bard doth go, 

And sees the children of the poor around 

Feed on the knowledge elsewhere yet unfound. 

The Poet, then, his former tasks foreswore, 

Vowing himself to charity evermore , — 

Folded his wings of light — cast his fresh bays aside— 

His friends beloved abjured, abjured his pride. 

There lived and labor'd, and there early died 

Short was his day of labor, but its morn 

Prolific was of beauty; thoughts were born 

In his heart's secret spots, which grew, attended 

By a fine sense — instinct and reason blended — 

Till, like a spring, they spread his haunts with glory, 

O'er-arched their streams, upraised their hilLs in story. 

Fixed the broad Shannon in its course forever, 

And bade it flow for aye, a genius-haunted river. 

Ye men of Munster, guard his sleep serene! 
Spirits of such bright order are not seen 
But once in generations. He was an echo, dwelling 
Amid your mountains, all their secrets telling. 
Their mem'ries, their traditions, and their wrongs, 
The stoiy of their sins — the music of their songs, 
Their tempests, and their terrors, and the fonns 
They bring forth , impregnated by the storms. 



172 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

He knew the voices of your rivers, knew 

Every deep chasm they leap or murmur through, — 

Blindfold, at midnight, by their sounds could tell 

Their names and their descent o'er clift' and dell. 

Oh! men of Muaster, since the ancient time, 

Ye have not met such loss as in this monk sublime! 

The second summer's grass was on his grave, 

When to his memory Melpomene gave 

A laurel wreath wove from the self-same tree 

That shades Boccaccio's dust perennially; 

Fair were the smiles her mournful glances met 

In woman's lovely eyes, with heart 's-dew wet, 

And many voices loudly cried, " Well done!" 

As the sad goddess crown'd her lifeless son. 

Oh, ever thus: Death strikes the gifted, then 

Come the worms — inquests — and the award of men! 

Low in your grave, young Gerald Griffin, sleep; 

You never looked on him who now doth weep 

Above your resting-place — ^j'on never heard 

The voice that oft has echo'd eveiy word 

Dropped from your pen of light — sleep on, sleep on — 

I would I knew you, yet not — now you are gone! 



*^5l 





REV. CHARLES WOLFE, 

AUTHOR OF "the BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." 

^IKE Ingram and Gray the Rev. Charles Wolfe 
is known to the world as the author of a 
single song. " The Burial of Sir John Moore" has 
made his name immortal. 

He was born in the city of Dublin in the year 
1791. His parents were people of means, and his 
family not without distinction both in Ireland and 
America. The brilliant but ill-fated Wolfe Tone and 
the hero of Quebec were closely allied to his family, 
and others of the same name and lineage subse- 
quently became distinguished in the annals of Irish 
history. In 1809 Charles Wolfe entered Trinity 
College, Dublin, after having spent some years of 
preparation at school in England. 

His poetic genius was first revealed to the faculty 
of the University by the excellence of a Latin class- 
poem which he wrote during the early part of his 
second year. But the composition which brought 
him prominently into public favor was the ode on 
the burial of Sir John Moore. Lord Byron, seeing 
this poem, pronounced it " the very best of .its kind 
which the present prolific age has brought forth." 

(173) 



174 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

" Medwin's Conversations of Byron," relating a 
critical discussion that arose between Byron, Shelley 
and other literary men of their time, has the following 
passages : 

The conversation, after dinner, turned on the lyrical poetry 
of the day, and a question arose as to which vras the most per- 
fect ode that had been produced in the English language. 
Shelly contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, beginning — 
" Ye Clouds," etc. Others named some of Moore's Irish Melo- 
dies and Campbell's " Hohenlinden;" and had Lord Byron not 
been present, the Invocation in " Manfred" or the Ode to Napo- 
leon might have been cited. 

" Like Gray," said Byron, " Campbell smells too much of the 
oil; he is never satisfied with what he does; his finest things 
have been spoiled by the ' labor of the file.' Like paintings, 
poems may be too highly finished. The great art is effect, no 
matter how produced. I will show you an ode you have never 
seen, that I consider the very best which the present prolific 
age has brought forth." With this he left the table, almost 
before the cloth was removed, and soon returned with a maga- 
zine from which he read the lines on Sir John Moore's burial. 
The feeling with which he recited these admirable stanzas I 
I shall never forget. After he had come to the eftd he repeated 
the third, and said it was perfect, particularly the lines: 

• "But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

" I should have taken the whole," said Shelley, " for a rough 
sketch of Campbell's." 

" No," replied Byron; " Campbell would have claimed it if it 
had been his. " 



REV. CHAKLES WOLFE. 



175 



The account of Sir John Moore's burial which 
inspired our author to write this poem was fii»st 
printed in a Scotch paper, and runs thus: 

Sir John Moore had often said that, if he was killed in 
battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was 
removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna, A grave was 
dug for him on the rampart there, by a party of the Ninth 
Regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin 
could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, 
dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The inter- 
ment was hastened, for about eight" in the morning some firing 
was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were 
made, they should be ordered away and not suffered to pay 
him their last duty. The officers of his staff bore hina to the 
grave. The funeral service was read by the chaplain and the 
corpse was covered with earth. 

This is the simple narrative that produced the 
impression which prompted and enabled Wolfe to 
write his famous poem. His biographer, Archdeacon 
Kussell of Clogher, informs us that it found its way 
into print without the knowledge of its author. 

"It was," he goes on to say, ''recited by a friend 
in presence of a gentleman traveling toward the 
North of Ireland, w^ho was so much struck with it 
that he requested and obtained a copy, and, imme- 
diately after, it appeared in the Neivry Telegraph with 
the initials of the author's name. From that it was 
copied into most of the London prints, and thence 
into the Dublin papers, and subsequently it appeared 



176 IRI8H POETS AND NOVELISTS. 

with some considerable errors in the Edinburgh 
Annual Register, which contained the narrative that 
first kindled the poet's feelings on the subject, and 
supplied the materials to his mind." 

Besides these given in this volume Wolfe wrote 
many other pieces of lesser note. He was ordained 
a minister of the Anglican Church, in 1817, and 
appointed to a living in Donoughmore, within the 
jurisdiction of Armagh. Here he lived for some 
years, devoting a good deal of his time to the study of 
Irish authors, and preaching when it came his turn 
to do so. Ireland's great lyrist, Tom Moore, was his 
favorite poet, and it is said that there were very few 
contemporaries who possessed a keener appreciation 
of the Irish Melodies than did the Rev. Charles 
Wolfe. 

After a few short years in the ministry, he became 
the victim of consumption, which in a brief space 
closed a career that opened with the promise of much 
more than was ever realized. 

With the fond hope of prolonging his vlife he left 
Donoughmore and went southward to that beautiful 
watering-place called, in those days, the Cove of Cork. 
Even the balmy air of Munster could not restore his 
wasted strength or retard the progress of the fatal 
disease. He died at Cove in 1823, and was buried 
in the neighboring churchyard of Clonmel Parish, 
where his grave is almost entirely neglected. Is the 



REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 177 

spirit of utilitarianism creeping into Ireland that his 
countrymen should neglect the final resting-place of 
this gentle poet? Alas! such is the common fate of 
genius ! 

The following lines are from the pen of an 
American poetess, Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt, the accom- 
plished wife of our Consul at Cork. She was natur- 
ally surprised that a people proverbially so fond of 
poetry should neglect the grave of one whose name 
has reflected credit on his native land: 

AT THE GRAVE OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 

Where graves were many, we looked for one- 

Oh, the Irish rose was red— 
And the dark stones saddened the setting sun 

With the names of the early dead. 
Then a child who, somehow, had heard of him 

In the land we love so well , 
Kept lifting the grass till the dew was dim 

In the churchyard of Clonmel. 

But the sexton came. ' ' Can you tell us where 

Charles Wolfe is buried ?" ' ' I can. 
See, that is his grave in the corner there — 

Aye, he was a clever man, 
If God had spared him ! It's many that come 

To be asking for him," said he; 
But the boy kept whispering ' ' Not a drum 

Was heard," in the dusk to me. 

15 



178 IKI8H POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Then the gray man tore a vine from the wail 

Of the roofless church where he lay, 
And the leaves that the withering year let fall, 

He swept with the 'ivy away. 
And, as we read on the rock the words 

That, writ in the moss, we found, 
Right over his bosom a shower of birds 

In music fell to the ground. 

Young poet , I wonder did you care — 

Did it move you in your rest — 
To hear that child in his golden hair. 

From the mighty woods of the West, 
Repeating your vei-se of his own sweet will 

To the sound of the twilight bell, 
Years after your beating heart was still 

In the churchyard of (Jlonmel ? 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we biuied. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night,. 
The sods with our bayonets turning; 

By the stiniggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 



REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 179 

Few and short were the prayers we said , 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of tlie iiiorrow\ 

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head 

And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
But little he'll reek, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock stnick the hour foi- retiring, 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line , and we raised not a stone , 
But we left him alone with his gloiy. 

IF T HAD THOUGHT. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be: 



liSG IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

It never through my mind had pass'd 
The time would e'er be o'er, 

And I on thee should look my last, 
And thou shouldst smile no more. 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 't will smile again; 
And still the thought I will not brook 

That I must look in vain. 
But, when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left unsaid ; 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary! thou art dead. 

If thou would'st stay e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene, 
I still might press thy silent heart. 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have. 

Thou seemest still mine own; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave 

And I am now alone ! 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart 

In thinking, too, of thee. 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore. 



REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 181 



OH! SAY NOT THAT. 

Oh ! say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once could warm it , 
That nature's form, so dear of old, 

No more has power to charm it; 
Or that th' ungenerous world can chili 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still, 

And shared its wild devotion. 

Still oft those solemn scenes I view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness — 
Oft look on those who loved them, too, 

With fancy's idle gladness. 
Again I long to view the light 

In nature's features glowing, 
Again to tread the mountain's height, 

And taste the soul's o'erflowinar. 

Stern Duty rose and frowning flung 

Her leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen toncrue 

He muttered as he bound me: 
" The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free alone are given, 

But what have slaves with Nature ?' 



182 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

GO! FORGET ME. 

Go! forget me, why should sorrow 
O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 

Go! forget me — and to-morrow 
Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. 

Smile — though I shall not be near thee; 

Sing — though I shall never hear thee. 

May thy soul with pleasure shine, 

Lasting as the gloom of mine. 

Like the sun, thy presence glowing. 

Clothes the meanest things in light; 
And when thou, like him, art going. 

Loveliest objects fade in night. 
All things looked so bright about tliee, 
That they nothing seem without thee. 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too refined. 

Go! thou vision, wildly gleaming. 

Softly on my soul that fell. 
Go! for me no longer beaming, 

Hope and beauty, fare ye well' 
Go! and all that once delighted 
Take — and leave me, all benighted, 
Glory's burning gen'rous swell, 
Fancy and the poet's shell. 





CHARLES GRAHAM HAI,PINE;. 




CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE 

POET, EDITOR AND SOJ.DIER. 

JLDCASTLE, in the County Meath, Ireland, is 
the birth-place of the subject of this memoir. 
Tlie Halpines originally belonged to County Louth, 
where the Clan Halpine held an honorable place 
among the well-to-do farmers for many generations. 
Nicholas Halpine, the father of the future litterateur, 
was educated at old Trinity College, Dublin, and, 
after graduation, became a minister of the Estab- 
lished Church. Appointed to a living near Oldcas- 
tle, he resided there for many years; and there his 
oldest son, Charles, first drew vital breath, in the 
year 1829. When this boy was eleven years old the 
Rev. Nicholas Halpine, growing weary of country 
life, moved to Dublin where he became editor-in- 
chief of the Evening Mail, at that time the organ of 
Protestantism in Ireland. Young Charles accom- 
panied his father to the metropolis, and, having 
attained the proper age, entered Trinity College, 
where he became not only very popular with the 
students but also a distinguished classical scholar and 
a linguist of no mean parts. Having finished his 
course at the University he graduated with honor, 

(183) 



184 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

and then turned his mind for some time to the study 
of medicine. This he discovered to be very uncon- 
genial to his taste and talent, and, for another short 
period, his attention was given to the study of Black- 
stone. But law proved as distasteful to him as 
medicine. The natural bent of his mind was tow- 
ards literature, and most of his after years were de- 
voted to writing for the press. 

When only nineteen years of age he married an 
amiable and accomplished Irish lady, and thought 
for a while of leading a quiet life in his native land. 
Assiduously devoting himself to journalism he found 
a ready market for his work both in London and 
Dublin. His poetic contributions were always in 
high demand at the offices of the English periodicals, 
and the Irish newspapers cheerfully paid for his 
prose articles on the issues of the time. 

But the Greater Ireland was rising in the West, 
young, vigorous and progressive. The priests, phy- 
sicians and poets of the Gael were following the Star 
of Empire in tlie track of the great Irish exodus; 
and Halpine, young and hopeful, was drawn into the 
current and swept along b}^ the outgoing tide. 

Reaching New York in the summer of 1852, about 
the same time as his college-mate Fitz- James O'Brien, 
he became connected with the New York Herald, 
His large literary attainments and prolific genius in 
a short time asserted themselves and enabled him to 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 185 

take a prominent place among the distinguished 
writers of the country. The leading journals through- 
out the Union paid him handsomely for articles on 
various subjects. For some great daily he wrote a 
leader on the politics of the time; to some leading 
weekly he contributed a stirring song brimful of 
Irish wit, and for one or other of the high-standard 
monthlies he translated some short story that was 
going the rounds of the French, Italian or German 
press. 

After a few busy and successful years spent in 
New York, Mr. lialpine went down to the metropolis 
of New England to occupy the editorial chair of 
the Boston Post. Having infused new blood and 
vigor into the old journal and given it a long lease 
of life, he formed a partnership with the poet Shilla- 
ber, and started a comic paper called the Carpet 
Bag. This literary venture did not prove a pecu- 
niary success, however, and Halpine returned to New 
York where he was immediately installed as asso- 
ciate editor of the Times. 

In 1858 Mr. John Clancy and our author com- 
menced the publication of the Leader, which in a 
short time, under their joint control, became a jour- 
nal not alone of great influence in politics, but 
also a high-grade literary paper. In the office of 
the Leader Mr. Halpine labored assiduously until 
Col. Michael Corcoran beo;an to recruit for the 



186 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

famous Sixty-ninth, when he joined his fellow- 
countrymen and went South to defend the Union. 

A lover of freedom and member of the Young 
Irelanders at home in his native land, he naturally 
hated slavery in his adopted country, and his pen 
did effective service in the cause of Abolition. 

When Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave, was re- 
turned by the authorities to his master in the South, 
Halpine wrote his remarkable poem, the "Flaunting 
Lie," which was for a long time attributed to Horace 
Greeley. He loved to see that freedom which he 
himself enjoyed under the flag of liis ad(^pted coun- 
try extended to every member of the human race, 
irrespective of caste or color. That flag he desig- 
nated a " flaunting lie " so long as it shielded slavery 
in the South, and he advised the Government to 

Furl, furl the boasted lie! 

Till Freedom lives again, 
With stature grand and purpose high 

Among untramineled men! 
Roll up the stany sheen, • v 

Conceal its bloody stains; 
For in its folds is seen 

The stamp of rustinj,' chains. 

To extend this freedom to the black man of the 
South and maintain the integrity of the Republic, 
Halpine fought manfully at the Battle of Bull Run. 
Transferred to the command of General David 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 187 

Hunter, he became a staff-officer with the rank of 
Major, and accompanied that General when he was 
ordered to North Carolina. Here it was that Major 
Halpine assumed the pen-name of "Miles O'Reilly" 
and wrote his comical letters and witty songs. In 
one of those songs he assailed Dalilgren for not 
attacking Charleston according to his promise. The 
•song attracted a liberal share of public attention and 
it was mooted abroad that the writer, Private Miles 
O'Reilly, was imprisoned for his breach of military 
discipline and would be court-martialled in a few 
days. President Lincoln, on hearing the report and 
taking it to be true, directed the Secretary of War to 
issue an order for O'Reilly's release and the post- 
ponement of his trial. Here the gifted Celt enthu- 
siastically applied himself to the study of military 
tactics, and in a comparatively short space of time 
he was considered one of the best-informed officers 
in the service on military affairs. It was he that 
suggested the use of colored troops to General Hun- 
ter, by whom the negroes were first turned to good 
account as soldiers. 

Recognizing his worth the authorities promoted 
Major Halpine to the rank of Colonel and transferred 
him to the staff of Major-General Halleck, with whom 
he went into active service in the Shenandoah Valley. 
On the march towards Staunton he was the ver}^ soul 
and centre of the army, acknowledged by all as the 



188 IKISH POETS AMD NOVELISTS: 

most daring in battle, the best story-teller in camp, 
and the first to sympathize with and come to the 
assistance of an afflicted associate in arms. Such 
was the general verdict given by his comrades of 
Col. C. G. Halpine before he resigned his commis- 
sion towards the close of the Civil War. 

When his command was ordered to Washington, 
in consideration of efficient services rendered, he was 
raised to the rank of Brigadier-General of Volunteers 
and gazetted Major in the regular army. But here 
he grew weary of inactive life. The cause of Free- 
dom was triumphant. He could not expect to ren- 
der much more service to his adopted country in 
the capacity of soldier, and seeing that the struggle 
was virtually ended he tendered his resignation to 
the Government. The War Department conferred 
upon him the rank of Major-General by brevet, and 
sheathing his sword he once more assumed the pen 
in the office of the New York Citizen. 

After the close of the war he was elected to the 
important and lucrative position of City Registrar, 
which office he filled to the morning of his death. 

When the wires fiashed the Fall of Richmond to 
New York the people almost went wild with joy. 
No class rejoiced over the triumph of the Govern- 
ment more heartily than the citizens of Irish birth, 
and, fired by the inspiration of the glad tidings, 
General Halpine gave expression and form to their 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 189 

loyal feelings in a remarkable poem from which the 
following verses are quoted: 

Mush A, glory to God! for the news you have sint, 
Wid 3^our own pui"ty fist, Mister Presidint Linkin! 
And may God be around both the bed and the tint 
Where our bully boy Grant does his aitin and thinkin'. 

Even Stanton, to-night, we'll confess he v/as right 
Whin he played the ould scratch wid our have-you-his-carkiss; 
And to gallant " Phil Sherry" we'll drink wid delight, 
On whose bright plume of fame not a spot o' the dark is! 

Let the chapels be opened, the altars illumed, 

An' the mad bells ring out from aich turret an shteeple ; 

Let the chancels wid flowers be adorned an' perfumed 

While the soggarths — God bless 'em — give thanks for the people. 

For the city is ours that " Mac" sought from the start, 
An' our boys thro' its streets " Hail Columbia " are yellin'; 
An' there's peace in the air, an' there's pride in the heart, 
An' our flag has a fame that no tongue can be tellin'. 

Who but a genuine Irish poet could give fitting 
expression to the patriotic feelings of gladness that 
filled every Irish heart on that eventful day ! Hal- 
pine's heart was Irish to the core and therefore 
ardently devoted to the institutions of the Republic. 
Ireland was his mother; Columbia his spouse. What 
he thought of his mother may be learned from his 
splendid poem, " Stamping Out," which was written 
in reply to an editorial in the London Times. The 
editor of the British Thunderer said: 



190 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

" We must stamp out the fires of this Fenian insurrection, 
and quench its embers in the blood of the wretches who are its 
promoters. " 

The fire of patriotism which had smoldered in the 
breast of his loyal father was fanned to a flame by the 
brutal threats of the Times, and Halpine exclaimed- 

Aye, stamp away! Can you stamp it out, 
This quenchless fii'e of a Nation's Freedom? 

Before General Halpine had attained to the age of 
forty, death overtook and snatclied him from the 
scene of his labors and with the laurels fresh upon 
his brow. He died in the Astor House, New York, 
on the morning of the 3d of August, 1868, from the 
effects of a drug taken for insomnia. His life went 
out under circumstances much similar to those which 
attended the closing scene of the late John Boyle 
O'Reilly's remarkable career. There was a great 
deal in common between the two men, mentally and 
ph^^sically. 

General Halpine was a splendid type of Celtic 
manhood — tall, stout and well proportipned. His 
bearing was soldierly and commanding to such a 
degree as to make him a marked man in any 
gathering of people. In manners he was amiable, 
courteous and refined, while his disposition to assist 
the poor and unfortunate was such that no deserving 
person ever appealed to him in vain. His death M^as 
a great loss to periodical literature, and it has caused 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 191 

a vacancy in New York which will not soon be filled 
by another " Private Miles OTteilly." 

Following are a few of General Halpine's poems: 

ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO THE IRISH LEGION. 

To raise a column o'er the dead, 

To strew with flowers the graves of those 
Who, long ago, in storms of lead, 
And where the bolts of battle sped, 

Beside us faced our Southern foes; 
To honor these — th' unshriv'n, unhearsed — 

To-day we sad survivors come , 
With colors draped, and arms reversed, 
And all our souls in gloom immersed. 

With silent fife and muffled drum. 

In mournful guise our banners wave; 

Black clouds above the "sunburst" lower; 
We mourn the true, the young, the brave 
Who, for this land that shelter gave. 

Drew swords in peril's deadliest hour — 
For Irish soldiere fightingf here 

As when Lord Clare was bid advance, 
And Cumberland beheld with fear 
The old green banners swinging clear 

To shield the broken lines of France. 

We mourn them ; not because they died 

In battle, for our destined race, 
In ever^' field of warlike pride. 
From Limerick's wall to India's tide 

Have borne our flag to foremost place; 



192 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

As if each sought the soldier's trade, 

While some dim hope within him gloWs, 

Before he dies, in line arrayed, 

To see the old green flag displayed 
For final fight with Ireland's foes. 

For such a race the soldier's death 

Seems not a cruel death to die, 
'Around their names a laurel wreath, 
A wild cheer as the parting breath 

On which their spirits mount the sky; 
Oh, had their hope been only won, 

On Irish soil their final fight. 
And had they seen, ere sinking down, 
Our em'rald torn from England's crown. 

Each dead face would have flashed with light. 

But vain are words to check the tide 

Of widowed grief and orphaned woe; 
Again we see them by our side, 
As, full of youth and strength and pride, 

They first went forth to meet the foe! 
Their kindling eyes, their steps elate, 

Their grief at parting hid in mirth; 
Against our foes no spark of hate , 
No wish but to preserve the State 

That welcomes all th' oppressed of earth. 

Not a new Ireland to invoke. 

To guard the flag was all they sought; 
Not to make others feel the yoke 
Of Poland, feel the shot and stroke 
Of those who in the legion fought ; 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 193 

Upon our great flag's azure field 

To hold unliarmed each starry gem — 
This cause on many a bloody field, 
Thinned out by death, they would not yield — 

It was the world's last hope to them. 

Oh ye, the small surviving band. 

Oh, Irish race wherever spread. 
With wailing voice and wringing hand, 
And the wild kaoine of the dear old land, 

Think of her Legion's countless dead! 
Struck out of life by ball or blade. 

Or torn in fragments by the shell, 
With briefest prayer by brother made , 
And rudely in their blankets laid, 

Now sleep the brave who fought so well. 

Their widows — tell them not of pride , 

No laurel checks the orphan's tear; 
They only feel the world is wide. 
And dark , and hard — nor help nor guide — 

No husband's arm, no father near; 
But at their nod our fields were won, 

And pious pity for their loss 
In streams of gen'rous aid should run 
To help them say: " Thy will be done," 

As bent in grief they kiss the Cross. 

Then for the soldiers and their chief 

Let all combine a shaft to raise — 
The double type of pride and grief. 
With many a sculpture and relief 

To tell their tale to after days; 14 



194 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And here will shine — our proudest boast 

While one of Irish blood survives: 
" Sacred to that unfalt'rinij host 
Of soldiers from a distant coast . 
Who f )r tlie Union g&ve their lives. 

" Welcomed they were with f^enerous hand, 

And to that welcome nobly true, 
When war's dread tocsin filled the land, 
With sinewy ai'm and swinoin<Tj brand. 

These exiles to the rescue flew. 
Their fealty to the flag they gave, 

And for the Union, daring death. 
Foremost among the foremost bi-ave, 
They welcomed vict'ry and the grave, 

In the same sigh of parting breath." 

Thus be their modest history penned. 

But not with this our love must cease; 
Let prayers from pious hearts ascend, 
And o'er their ashes let us blend 

All feuds and factions into peace. 
Oh, men of Ireland! here unite 

Around the graves of those we love, 
And from their homes of endless light 
The Legion's dead will bless the sight. 

And rain down anthems from above ! 

Here to this shrine by reverence led, 
Let Love her sacred lessons teach; 
Shoulder to shoulder rise the dead. 
From many a trench with battle red. 
And thus I hear their ghostly speech: 



CHAilLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 195 

" Oh, for the old eaith, and our sake, 

Renounce all feuds, engend'ring fear, 
And Ireland from her trance sliall wake, 
Striving once more her chains to break 

When all her sons are brothel's here." 

I see our Meagher's plume of green, 

Approving nod to hear the words, 
And Oorcoran's wraith applauds the scene, 
And bold Mat Murphy smiles, I ween — 

All three with hands on ghastly swords — 
Oh, for their sake, whose names of light 

Flash out like beacons from dark shores — 
Men of the old race! in your might, 
All factions quelled , again unite — 

With you the Green Flag sinks or soars' 

JANETTF/S HAIR. 

Oh! loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 

Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet; 
For the world to me had no daintier sight 
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white, 

As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet. 

It was brown, with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet; 

'T was a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist; 

"J' was a thing to be braided, and jeweled and kissed; 
'T was the loveliest hair in the world, my pet. 



196 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet; 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress — 
Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 

Revealing the old, dear story, my pet; 

They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky, 
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, 

And they matched with your golden hair, my pet. 

Your lips — but I have no words, Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet; 
When the spring is young, and the roses are wet 
With the dewdrops in each red bosom set. 
And they suited your gold-brown hair, my pet. 

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet; 

But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore. 
With my fingers enmeshed in your hair, my pet. 



Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair, my pet; 
In the darkness of desolate yeare I moan. 
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
That covers your golden hair, my pet. 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 197 

NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE. 

OCH ! a rare ould flag was the flao^ we bore — 

*T was a bully ould flag an' nice ; 
It had stripes in plenty, and stars galore — 

'Twas the broth of a purty device. 
Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far, 

And around it our bivouacs made; 
An' we swore by the shamrock that never a ahtar 

From its azure field should fade. 

Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue. 

That was sworn in the souls of our boys in blue. 

The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall, 

An' the shells like a banshee scream; 
An* the flag — it is torn by many a ball — 

But yield it we never dhream. 
Though pierced by bullets, ^-et still it bears 

All the stare in its tatthered field, 
An' again the brigade, like to one man swears, 

" Not a shtar from the flag we yield!" 

'T was the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue, 
That lay close to the hearts of the boys in blue. 

Shure the fight it was won, afther many a year, 

But two-thirds of the boys who bore 
That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear 

Retui^ned to their homes no more. 
They died by the bullet — disease had power, 

An' to death they were rudely tossed; 
But the thought came warm in their dying hour, 

" Not a shtar from that flag is lost! " 



198 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Then they said their pathers and aves through, 
An', like Irishmen, died — did our boys in blue. 

But now they tell us some shtars are gone. 

Torn out by the rebel gale ; 
That the shtars we fought for, the States we won, 

Are still out of the Union's pale. 
May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow 

Who sing such a lying shtrain; 
By the dead in their graves it shall not be so — 

They shall have what they died to gain ' 

All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through 
The gi-ass growing soft o'er our dead in blue ' 

STAMPING OUT 

[We mtiBt stamp out the fires of this Fenian insurrection, and quench iim 
embers in the blood of the wretches who are its promoters — London Times. ] 

Aye, stamp away! Can you stamp it out — 

This quenchless fire of a Nation's Freedom ^ 
Your feet are broad and your legs are stout, 

But stouter far for this you'll need 'em ' 
You have stamped away for six hundred yeai"s, 

But again and again the old cause rallies"; 
Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineei"s, 

And with scythes come the men from our valleys. 

The steel-clad Norman, as he roams, 
Is faced by our naked gallow-glasses ; 

We lost the plains and our pleasant homes, 
But we held the fields and passes' 



CHARLES GilAHAM HALPINE. 199 

And still the beltone fires at night — 

If not a man were left to feed 'em — 
By widows' hands piled high and bright, 

Flashed for the flame of Freedom ' 

Aye , stamp away ! Can you stamp it out, 

Or how have your brutal aits been baffled ? 
You have wielded the power of rope and knot, 

Fire, dungeon, sword and seatfold 
But still, as from each martyi's hand 

The Fiery Cross fell down in fighting, 
A thousand sprang to seize the brand, 

Our beltone fires re-lighting! 

And once again through Irish nights. 

O'er eveiy dark hill redly streaming, 
And numei-ous as the heavenly lights, 

Our rebel fires were gleaming ! 
And though again might fall that flaine, 

Quenched in the blood of its devoted, 
Fresh chieftains rose , f I'esh clansmen came 

And again the Old Flag floated. 

That fire will burn, that flag will float — 

By Virtue nursed, by Valor rended — 
Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat 

Your Moloch reign is ended ! 
It may be now, or it may be then. 

That the hour will come we have hoped for ages — 
But, failing and foiling, we try again, 

And aijain the conflict ra<.>:es. 



200 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Our hate, though hot, is a patient hate — 

Deadly and patient to catch you tripping. 
And your eyes are many, your crimes are great, 

And the sceptre is from you slipping. 
But, stamp away with your brutal hoof, 

While the fires to scorch you are upward cleaving. 
For with bloody shuttles, the wai-p and woof 

Of your shroud the Fates are weaving ! 

THE FLAUNTING LIE. 

All hail the flaunting Lie! 

The stars grow pale and dim — 
The stripes are bloody scars, 

A lie the flaunting hymn! 
It shields a pirate's deck, 

It binds a man in chains. 
And round the captive's neck 

Its folds are bloody stains. 

Tear down the flaunting Lie ! 

Half-mast the starry flag! 
Insult no sunny sky 

With this polluted rag! 
Destroy it, ye who can! 

Deep sink it in the waves ! 
It beai-s a fellow-man 

To groan with fellow-slaves. 

Awake the burning scorn — 
The vengeance long and deep, 

That, till a better morn, 
Shall neither tire nor sleep! 



CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 201 

Swear once again the vow, 

By all we hope or dream, 
That what we suffer now 

The future shall redeem. 

Furl, furl the boasted Lie! 

Till Freedom lives again, 
With stature grand and pui-pose high 

Among untrammeled men! 
Roll up the starry sheen, 

Conceal its bloody stains; 
For in its folds are seen 

The stamp of rusty chains. 

Swear, Freemen — all as one — 

To spurn the flaunting Lie ! 
Till peace and Truth and Love 

Shall fill the brooding sky; 
Then floating in the air. 

O'er hill, and dale, and sea, 
'T will stand forever fair, 

The emblem of the Free ! 

SAMBO'S RIGHT TO BE KILT. 

Some say it is a burnin' shame 

To make the naygurs fight, 
An' that the thrade o' bein' kilt 
Belongs but to the white. 
But as for me, upon me sowl, 

So liberal are we here, 
I'll let Sambo be murthered in place o' myself 

On eveiy day in the year. 



202 imsH POETS AND novelists: 

On every day in the year, boys, 
An' every hour in tlie day, 

The ridit to be kilt I'll divide with him, 
An' divil a word I'll say. 

In battle's wild commotion 

I shouldn't at all object, 
If Sambo's body should stop a ball 

That was comin' for me direct; 
An' the prod of a Southern bagnet. 

So liberal are we here, 
I'll resign, and let Sambo take it 

On every day in the year. 

On every day in the year, lx)ys. 
An' wid none o' your nasty pride, 

All my right in Southern bagnet-prod 
Wid Sambo I'll divide. 

The men who object to Sambo 

Should take his place and fight. 
An' it's betther to have a naj^gur's hue 

Than a liver that's wake an' white; 
Though Sambo's as black as the ace o' spades 

His linger a thrigger can pull. 
An' his eye runs straight on the barrel-sights 

From under his thatch o' wool. 

So hear me all, boys, darlin'.s! 

Don't think I'm tippin' you chaff. 
The right to be kilt I'll divide wid him. 

An' give him the largest half ! 




JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN 

AUTHOR OF "gOUGANE BARRA." 

HERE is a romantic islet in Clonakilty Bay, 
on the south coast of Ireland, where the sub- 
ject of this memoir wrote his " Childe Harold " — 
" The Recluse of Inchidony." He was truly the 
poet of nature, who found pleasure among the gloomy 
glens of Desmond and " rapture on the lonely shore" 
of Inchidony. There he communed with nature for 
a considerable space of time and wrote that splendid 
poem entitled "(jougane Barra," which Allibone, the 
biographical compiler and literary critic, designates 
as " the most perfect, perhaps, of all minor Irish 
|)Oems, in the melody of its rhythm, the soft, sweet 
flow of its language and tlie weird force of its expres- 
sion." A tradition connected with the shores of his 
wild retreat suggested another of his pieces, " The 
Virgin Mary's Bank." 

James Joseph Callanan was born in the city of 
Cork, in May, 1795. His parents were in good cir- 
cumstances, and gave the future poet all the educa- 
tional advantages that could be had at that time in 
liis native city. Mrs. Callanan, a lady of piety and 

(203) 



204 



IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



culture, directed the thoughts and aspirations of her 
son towards the sacred ministry, from his boyhood. 

Having made his classical studies in one of the 
many Latin schools for which the city of St. Finn- 
Barr has always been remarkable, he passed an ex- 
aminaton for the ecclesiastical seminary of May- 








nooth and entered there in 1812, when he was but 



seventeen years of age. 



Two years of student life in Maynooth convinced 
both his spiritual director and himself that he had 
no vocation to the sacred priesthood, and he left the 
Seminary to enter Trinity College as an outpensioner. 



JAMES JOSErH CALLANAN. 205 

Owing to the thorough course of training which he 
had received in Maynooth, his progress at Trinity 
was both easy and rapid. In belles-lettres he excelled, 
and during his University course took the Vice- 
Chancellor's prizes for poetry and rhetoric. One of 
his prize poems had for its subject the " Restoration 
of the Spoils of Athens;" another, the ''Accession of 
.» George the Fourth." The latter theme, doubtless, 
could have very little inspiration for one who loved 
his country as tenderly and sincerely as Callanan 
did. After devoting four j^ears to hard study and 
winning an enviable distinction in the best educa- 
tional institutions of his country, young Callanan 
returned to Cork. During his absence both his par- 
ents had died; the friends of boyhood's days were 
scattered far and wide, and those scenes that were so 
dear to him in former years seemed to have lost their 
charms. In the state of mind produced by those 
changes, he joined a regiment of Irish soldiers which 
was on the eve of leaving for Malta. Fortunately 
some patriotic friends interfered in time to buy him 
out of the service before the troops started from Cove, 
and the poetic literature of their country profited by 
the act. Shortly after his release, he was engaged as 
tutor in the family of Mr. M. F. McCarthy of Mill- 
street, a little town romantically situated on the 
Blackwater. While acting in this capacity Callanan 
found time to study the ancient Irish, and gather 



20(J IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

from the peasantry of the neighhoring glens those 
songs which he afterwards translated with so much 
felicity and force into the English tongue. 

Growing weary of his tutorship in Millstreet, he 
returned once more to Cork, where he obtained a 
position in the celebrated school of the learned 
Dr. William Maginn who, like himself, was a 
graduate of Trinity. The Doctor was a man of 
keen discernment, and soon discovered that his 
assistant possessed talents of a high order. He 
encouraged him to translate the relics of the Mun- 
ster bards, and introduced him to Blackwood's Maga- 
zine, to Avhich the Doctor himself had been for 
some years a valued contributor. In that year — 
1823 — six translations from the Gaelic language ap- 
peared in Blackwood's from the pen of " a new Irish 
poet." The poet was Callanan; and subsequently any 
literary contribution that bore the mark of his genius 
was welcomed to the editor's table. The shy, sensi- 
tive tutor had now found a friend in his fellow- 
townsman, and a broader sphere for the display of his 
talents in Mr. Blackwood's publication, and he was 
determined to make good use of his genius and 
acquirements. But, unfortunately, the friend and 
patron who had already won a wide popularity as the 
" Sir Morgan O'Dohertv " of Blackwood's soon gave up 
his school, and emigrated to London for the purpose 
of devoting all his time to literature. In London, 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 207 

Dr. Maginii became one of the most learned and 
prolific writers of his age. So, in 1823, poor Cal- 
lanan again found himself without an occupation. 
Had he followed his friend to London there was 
ample work for him to do on the countless publica- 
tions of that monster city. But he loved his riative 
land too dearly to leave it, and he now resolved to 
struggle at home. 

Then it was that he took up his residence in the 
little island above mentioned. From this strange, 
wild abode he made frequent excursions along the 
sea-coast of the County Cork, admiring the savage 
grandeur of the scenery, and collecting from the 
simple and generous people of those regions the 
legends and traditions which had been handed down 
to them through many generations. 

A close student of his country's history, the strug- 
gles of the brave but honest Gael against the crafty 
and faithless invader had for him an absorbing 
interest, and he devoted much of his time to collect- 
ing and preserving any records that were calculated 
to serve the future historian in meting out justice to 
a traduced and injured people. He was also an 
ardent lover of Nature, and the finest imagery we 
find in his poems is not borrowed from the ancient 
classics in which he was deeply versed, but taken 
from those inspiring objects that constitute the glori- 
ous scenery of " deep-vallev'd Desmond." 



208 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Every stream, rock and river, every storiea pass, 
sombre glen and hoary fane, every giant cliff that 
bares its breast to the tossing billows of the Atlantic, 
every ruined fort and mountain lake from the Lee 
around to the Kenmare river was as familiar to him 
as the morning prayer which he never failed to recite. 
Among those scenes he wandered day after daj^, lured 
on by the spirit of Song and the voice of Nature, as 
he tells us in one of his long poems: 

Spirit of Song! since first I wooed thy smile, 
How many a sorrow hath this bosom known 

How many false ones did its truth beguile, 
From THEE and Nature ! While around it strown 
Lay shattered hopes and feelings, thou alone 

Above my path of darkness brightly rose, 

Yielding thy light when other light was gone: 

Oh, be thou still the soother of my woes. 

Till the low voice of Death shall call me to lepose. 

During his wanderings through the picturesque 
barony of Beara, he succeeded in collecting a great 
deal of information relative to local chiefs. Where 
the village of Castletown nestles, at the western 
extremity of Bantry Bay, in an angle of the Caha 
hills, he found the manuscript of a poem which 
stands unrivaled in the whole range of Gaelic com- 
position, both for energy of expression and vehe- 
mence of malediction. In the translation Callanan 
has admirably retained its primitive power and 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 209 

vigor while adding to it those graces of euphony and 
diction which characterize all his verses. This 
piece is called ''The Dirge of O'SuUivan Beare," sup- 
posed to have been composed by the old nurse of the 
murdered Chief, whose cruel fate is a striking illus- 
tration of the brutal treatment received by the native 
gentry at the hands of Anglo-Norman marauders. 
Mortimer O'Sullivan, commonly called ''Morty 
Oge," was a descendant of 

"Donal of the ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted," 

and a yovmg man whose mettle had been tried in the 
wars of Maria Teresa. After the battle of Fontenoy, 
he received a commission in the Irish Brigade serving 
in France, and was dispatched to Ireland in the 
interest of his regiment. The gallant young soldier 
naturally directed his course to that part of the 
Green Isle over which his ancestors had reigned 
since the close of the tenth century. As a scion of the 
House of Beara, he was received with open arms by 
the native population, and his recruiting expedition 
became a pronounced success. A fine brigantine^ 
which he named the '' Clann-na-Darra," after a sept 
in his native place, carried the "Wild Geese," from 
certain inlets of the Kenmare river, and from the 
little harbor of Beal-a-Cravaun to convenient ports 
in France. The young Colonel managed to win over 

15 



210 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

to his standard a company of red-coats — beneath 
which pulsated warm Irish hearts — just on the eve of 
their departure from the city of Cork. This daring 
act aroused the Government authorities and cast 
some reflections on Mr, Puxley, the revenue officer 
for the district in which the recruiting was chiefly 
done. Puxley, who was himself a poltroon and the 
son of a poltroon, took care to avoid a conflict with 
0' Sullivan, whose reputation for skill and courage 
was well known in the south of Ireland. But when 
he ascertained that Colonel O'Sullivan was awa}^ on 
the coast of France, he marched at the head of a 
company of yeoman across the narrow neck of land 
that divides Castletown harbor from Coulach Bay 
with the heroic resolution of proving to the Govern- 
ment that he was an active and efficient officer. 
While in the neighborhood of the Irish officer's 
former home he received information to the effect 
that Denis O'Sullivan, a near kinsman to Morty Oge, 
resided there, and always extended the. hospitality of 
his house to the young chief whenever he came into 
the vicinity. 

Mr. D. O'Sullivan, who owned a smuggling craft, 
was at the time somewhere on the coast of Galway; 
but his wife (a fine old lady of three score) with a 
serving girl was at home. . Directing the footsteps 
of his gallant yeomen to this house, Mr. Puxley had 



JAMES JOSEPH CALL AN AN. 211 

the doors and windows nailed up, and then setting 
fire to the building, watched with complacency and 
pleasure the progress of the flames. 

Fortunately Mrs. O' Sullivan and her servant de- 
scended to the cellar and escaped through a subter- 
ranean passage. A cat, driven by the heat on to the 
burning rafters mewed most piteously while the 
flames lapped everything within reach. Taking the 
mewing of the cat for the dying groans of the noble 
old lady, Puxley exclaimed in the midst of his 
"loyall companie," "Hearken ye the squeals of the 
old Papist!" 

Subsequently this fiendish fellow being informed 
that the husband of the old lady, whom he had 
supposed to be dead, was landing some cases of 
goods in the little cove of Pouleen, hastened to 
the spot and from behind a huge rock, still pointed 
out by tradition, shot down the old man in cold 
blood. After this the authorities could not complain 
of his inactivity. 

Vengeance, however, was near at hand. On the 
return of Col. O'Sullivan the appalling news met 
him on his native shore. Immediately mounting 
his horse he rode over a spur of the Caha hills which 
separates Coulach from Dunbuie (then the residence 
of the revenue officer). At a short distance from 
that ancient stronghold of the O'Sullivans he met 



212 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Puxley, who was also on horseback. A flash ! and 
the latter fell to the ground mortally wounded. His 
wife, who accompanied him on that morning, seeing 
her husband fall, rode back terror-stricken to the 
Castle of Dunbuie. 

■ " Let her not escape to tell the tale," exclaimed 
O'Sullivan's orderly. " Never," replied the Colonel, 
" shall it be said that an O'Sullivan shot a woman." 

About nine months had passed away and Colonel 
O'Sullivan was back again in his ancestral home by 
the Atlantic. A company of soldiers came around 
from Cork under the command of Capt. Fitzsimons, 
and proceeded in the darkness of a rainy night to 
the house where O'Sullivan was stopping. It is said 
that one of his trusty men, named Scully, wet his 
master's powder, and betrayed him into the hands of 
the enemy. 

The following translation by our author tells the 
rest of that blood-stained and barbarous tale : 

DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEARE. 

The sun on Ivera 

No longer shines brightly; 
The voice of her music 

No longer is sprightly; 
No more to her maidens 

The light dance is dear, 
Since the death of our darling, 

O'Sullivan Beare. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 213 

Scully ! thou false one , 

You basely betrayed him, 
In his strong hour of need, 

When thy right hand should aid him. 
He fed thee — he clad thee — 

You had all could delight thee; 
You left him — you sold him — 

May Heaven requite thee! 

Scully ! may all kinds 

Of evil attend thee ! 
On thy dark road of life 

May no kind one befriend thee! 
May fevers long burn thee. 

And agues long freeze thee— 
May the strong hand of God 

In his red anger seize thee I 

Had he died calmly, 

I would not deplore him; 
Or if the wild sti-ife 

Of the sea-war closed o'er him; 
But with ropes 'round his white limh"* 

Through oceans to trail him, 
Like a fish after slaughter, 

'T is therefore I wail him. 

Long may the curse 

Of his people pursue them; 
Scully, that sold him. 

And soldiers that slew him ! 



214 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

One glimpse of Heaven's light 

May they see never! 
May the hearth-stone of hell 

Be their best bed forever ! 

In the hole which the vile hands 

Of soldiers had made thee, 
Unhonored, unshrouded, 

And headless they laid thee. 
No sigh to regret thee, 

No eye to rain o'er thee , 
No dirge to lament thee , 

No friend to deplore thee ! 

Dear head of my darling, 

How gory and pale 
These aged eyes see thee. 

High spiked on the jail ! 
That cheek in the summer sun 

Ne'er shall grow warm ; 
Nor that eye e'er catch light, 

But the flash of the storm I 

A curse, blessed ocean, 

Is on thy green water, 
From the haven of Cork, 

To I vera of slaughter; 
Since the billows were dyed 

With the red wounds of fear 
Of Muiertach Oge, 

Our 0' Sullivan Beare ! 



JAMES JOSEPH C ALLAN AN. 215 

From 1823 to 1828 Callanan devoted all his time 
to the congenial task of collecting and translating 
those Irish manuscripts that escaped the vandalism 
of the invader. For this work he was highly quali- 
fied, according to the opinion of J. F. Waller, him- 
self a poet of rare gifts and varied acquirements. 

" Thoroughly acquainted," writes Mr. Waller, " with 
the romantic legends of his country, he was singu- 
larly happy in the graces and power of language, and 
the feeling and beauty of his sentiments. There is 
in his compositions little of that high classicality 
which marks the scholar; but they are full of exquis- 
ite simplicity and tenderness, and in his description 
of natural scenery he stands unrivaled." 

Critics, of course, are not wanting who think our 
author might have done more, had he applied his 
well-cultivated mind more closely. About what he 
might have done we care very little ; but for what he 
has done we are grateful, and cherish his memory. 
For critics and fault-finders there should be little 
respect. Their strictures and opinions should pass 
unheeded. Though they do not build, they are 
nearly always pulling down. They are wreckers, and, 
like those who lure mariners to destruction, they do 
their work in the darkness. 

It must be remembered that Callanan suffered for 
many years from consumption, and finally sue- 



216 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

cumbed to that insidious disease. When its effects 
were severely telling on his strength, in 1829 he 
went as tutor with the family of a Mr. Hickey of 
Cork, to Lisbon, indulging the fond hope that the 
balmy air of a southern clime would restore his 
shattered health. 

After a few months' residence in Lisbon he grew 
worse and suffered much mental agony from the fear 
of dying in a foreign land. His ardent desire was 
to be buried in Ireland. He craved to be taken back 
to his own land in order that his ashes might mingle 
with the land of his fondest affections. But vain 
were his desires. He died in the capital of Portu- 
gal, September 19, 1829, and 

' ' By the strangere' heedless hand 
His lonely grave was made." 

At the age of thirty-four he resigned his pure and 
gentle spirit into the hands of his Divine Master, 
leaving behind him a reputation for scholarly 
attainments, fidelity to the cause of Ireland and 
devotion to the faith of his fathers. He was buried 
not in the churchyard of the Irish Franciscans at 
Lisbon,' as has been said, but in the church of San 
Jose, which was at that time in possession of the 
Jesuits. The highly ornamental facade of that 
church still stands, but the grave of James Joseph 
Callanan is nameless and unknown. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 217 

The last edition of his poems was published by 
Daniel Mulcahy, Cork, in 1861. The biographical 
notes of this, as well as of the earlier editions, are 
very poorly written, and do but little justice to the 
character of that pious, high-souled and generous 
man. The poems of this gentle bard are not numer- 
ous; but such is the excellence of their quality that 
they have been widely copied into our public school 
books here, and are .destined to transmit to coming 
generations the unsullied name of their gifted author. 

GOUGANE BARRA. 

There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, 

Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; 

In deep-valley'd Desmond — a thousand wild fountains 

Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains, 

There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow 

Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow ; 

As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, 

It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. 

And its zone of dark hills — oh, to see them all bright'ning. 
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, 
And the watere rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle, 
Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle ; 
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming. 
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming. 
Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland. 
So meet for a bard as this lone little island ? 



218 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

How oft when the summei' sun rested on Clara 
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, 
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean 
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, 
And thought of thy bards, when, assembling together, 
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather. 
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, 
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water! 

High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling, 

To think while alone through that solitude stealing, 

Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, 

I only awoke your wild haip from its slumber, 

And mingled once more with the V(jiee of those fountains 

The songs even echo forgot on her mountains; 

And gleaned each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping 

Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty weie creeping! 

Least bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit 

The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit, 

With the wrongs which like thee to our country have bound me. 

Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me , 

Still — still in those wilds may young liberty rally. 

And send her strong shout over mountain and valley; 

The star of the west may yet rise in its glory, 

And the land that was darkest be brightest in stoiy. 

I, too, shall be gone; — but my name shall be spoken 
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken; 
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming, 
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 219 

And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, 
Wheie calm Avon-Buie seeks the kisses of ocean, 
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, 
O'er the heart, and the harp that are sleeping forever. 

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 

The evening-star rose beauteous above the fading day, 
As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray; 
And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall; 
But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them 
all. 

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared. 

And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she 

near'd; 
To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, 
And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and 

beauty shone. 

The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, 

And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance of her 

brow; 
Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast. 
And her eyes looked up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd 

best. 

He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer; 
And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and jeer; 
And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before; 
And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them 
from the shore 



220 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, 
And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen ; 
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land, 
And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand. 

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leap'd about. 
And rushing with his wateiy war, the tempest gave a shout, 
And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thun- 

d'ring shock; 
And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock. 

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and 

high; 
But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling 

cry; 
And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away, 
And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters 

lay. 

When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore, 
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's shore; 
And to this day the fisherman shows whez'e the scoffers sank; 
And still he calls that hillock green the " Virgin Marj-'s Bank." 

THE STAR OF HEAVEN.. 

Shine on, thou bright beacon, unclouded and free 
From thy high place of calmness, o'er life's troubled sea* 
Its "morning of promise , its smooth waves are gone , 
And the billows roar wildly; then, bright one, shine on. 

The wings of the tempest may rush o'er thy ray; 
But tranquil thou smilest, undimmed by its sway; 
High, high o'er the worlds where storms are unknown 
Thou dwellest all beauteous, all glorious, — alone. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 221 

From the deep womb of darkness the Ughtning-flash leaps. 
O'er the bark of my fortunes each mad billow sweeps; 
From the port of her safety by warring- winds driven, 
And no light o'er her course — but yon lone one of Heaven. 

Yet fear not, thou frail one, the hour may be near, 
When our own sunny headland far off shall appear; 
When the voice of the storm shall be silent and past, 
In some Island of Heaven we may anchor at last. 

But, bark of eternity, whei'e art thou now? 
The wild waters shriek o'er each plunge of thy prow, 
On the world's di^eary ocean thus shatter'd and tost. 
Then, lone one, shine on! " If I lose thee, I'm lost!" 



O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN. 

fFrom the Irish.] 

O SAY, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, 
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line? 
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take; 
At the loud call of Freedom why don't they awake ? 

My strong ones have fallen — from the bright eye of day. 
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay; 
The cold turf is o'er them; — they hear not my cries, 
And, since Louis no aid gives, I cannot arise. 

Oh! where art thou, Louis? Our eyes are on thee! 
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea ? 
In Freedom's last strife if you linger or quail, 
No mom e'er shall break on the niarht of the Gael. 



222 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

But should the king's son, now bereft of his right, 
Come, proud in his strength, for his countiy to tight. 
Like leaves on the trees will new people arise, 
And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries. 

When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for his own, 
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne. 
My people in battle the Saxon will meet, 
And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. 

O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their rout; 

The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout. 

My sons all united shall bless the glad day 

When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away, 



LAMENT FOR IRELAND. 

[Prom the Irish.] 

How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael, 
And fall'n the high people of green Innisf ail ! 
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore. 
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more ! 

Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,^ 
On the land of your fathers at length you are lost; 
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains. 
And you're doom'd from your cradle to bondage and chains. 

Oh, where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow? 
Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now! 
That heart is now broken that never would quail, 
And thy high songs aie turned into weeping and wail. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 223 

Blight shades of our sires! from your home in the skies, 
Oh, blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes! 
Proud spirit of Gollam , how led is thy cheek , 
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak! 

O'Nial of the hostages! Con, whose high name 
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame ! 
Let the long grasses sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep; 
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep. 

In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night! 
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light! 
For freedom or valour no more can'st thou see 
In the home of the brave, in the isles of the free. 

Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd, 
And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud, 
Since first from the Brehon's pure justice you stray'd, 
And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made. 

We know not our country , so strange is her face ; 
Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace. 
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail, 
For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael. 

Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer. 
Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer ? 
Can those dark heights, with ramparts all frowning and riven, 
Be the hills where your forests wav'd brightly in heaven? 

O bondsmen of Eg3rpt, no Moses appears, 

To light your dark steps through this desert of tears! 

Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh 

To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die! 



224 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

ADDRESS TO GREECE. 

Nursling of freedom ! from her mountain nest 

She eai'ly taught thy eagle wing to soar, 
With eye undazzled and with fearless breast, 

To heights of glory never reached before. 

Far on the cliff of time, all grand and hoar, 
Proud of her charge , thy lofty deeds she rears 

With her own deathless trophies, blazon'd o'er, 
As mind-marks for the gaze of after years — 
Vainly they journey on — no match for thee appears. 

But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife 

Of yon degenerate race — along their plains 
They heard that call — they started into life; 

They felt their limbs a moment free from chains. 

The foe came on: — but shall the minstrel's strains 
Be sullied by the story? — hush, my lyre. 

Leave them amidst the desolate waste that reigns 
Round Tyranny's dark march of lava fire — 
Leave them amid their shame — their bondage to expire. 

Oh, be not thine such strife! — there heaves no sod 

Along thy fields, but hides a hero's head} 
And when you charge for freedom and for God 

Then — then be mindful of the mighty dead! 

Think that your field of battle is the bed 
Where slumber hearts that never feared a foe, 

And while you feel, at each electric tread. 
Their spirit through your veins indignant glow, 
Strong be your sabre's sway for freedom's vengeful blow. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 225 

0, sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt! 

Have ye forgot their deeds on yonder plain, 
When, pouring through the pass, the Persian felt 

The band of Sparta was not there in vain ? 

Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain 
Greece bade her bard th' immortal story write ? 

Oh ! if your bosoms one proud thought retain 
Of those who perish 'd in that deathless fight, 
Awake! like them be free, or sleep with names as bright' 

Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed, 

Amid your glorious slumbers do ye feel 
The rush of war loud thundering o'er your head? 

Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel ? 

Hear ye their victor cry ? — the Moslems reel ! 
On, Greeks! for freedom on, — they fly — they fly' 

Oh , how the aged mountains know that peal , 
Through all their echoing tops, while, grand and high, 
Thermopylae's deep voice gives back the proud reply I 

Oh ! for the pen of him whose bursting tear 

Of childhood told his fame in after days. 
Oh! for that bard, to Greece and freedom dear, 

The bard of Lesbos, with his kindling lays. 

To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise; 
Thy brave unaided strife — to tell the shame 

Of Europe's freest sons, who, 'mid the rays 
Through time's far vista blazing from thy name, 
Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal flame. 



i6 



226 IKISH POETS AND NOVEIJSTwS: 

Not even the deeds of him, who, late afar. 
Shook the astonished nations with his might ; 

Not even the deeds of her, whose wings ot war 
Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight ; — 
Not they shall rise with half th' unbroken light 

Above the waves of time, fair Greece, as thine; 
Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high sight, 

Through all her climates, offerings so divine, 

As thy proud sons have paid at freedom's sacred shrine. 

Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue. 
Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too long; 

Ye mountains, steep'd in glory's distant hue, 
If with you lives the memory of that song 
Which freedom taught you, the proud strain prolong: 

Echo each name that in her cause hath died , 
Till grateful Greece enrol them with the throng 

Of her illustrious sons, who on the tide 

Of her immortal verse eternally shall guide. 

THE MOTHER OF THE MACHABEES. 

That mother viewed the scene of blood; 

Her six unconquer'd sons were gone. 
Tearless she viewed — beside her stood 

Her last — her youngest — dearest one; 
He looked upon her and he smiled. 
Oh! will she save that only child ? 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 227 

*' By all my love— my son," she said, 

" The breast that nursed— the womb that bore,— 
Th' unsleeping care that watch'd thee, fed,— 

Till manhood's years required no more; 
By all I've wept and pray'd for thee, 
Now, now, be firm and pity me. 

*' Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven. 

With its high field of azure light; 
Look on this earth, to mankind given, 

Array'd in beauty and in might; 
And think, nor scorn thy mother's prayer, 
On him who said it and they were! 

*' So shalt thou not this tyrant fear. 

Nor recreant shun the glorious strife : 

Behold! thy battle-field is near; 

Then go, my son, nor heed thy life: • 

Go, like thy faithful brothers die. 

That I may meet you all on high." 

Like arrow from the bended bow. 

He sprang upon the bloody pile — 
Like sunrise on the morning's snow 

Was that heroic mother's smile: 
He died ! — nor feav'd the tyrant's nod — 
For Judah's law, — and Judah's God. 



228 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

MARY MAGDALEN. 

To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair: 
She heard in the city that Jesus was there , 
She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their board, 
But silently knelt at the feet of the Lord. 

The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek, 
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek ; 
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, 
It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame. 

The frown and the murmur went round through them all, 
That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall. 
And some said the poor would be objects more meet. 
For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd at His feet. 

She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs, 
She dared not look up to the heaven of His eyes; 
And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her breast. 
As her lips to His sandals she throbbingly press'd. 

On the cloud after tempests, as shine th the bow. 
In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow. 
He looked on that lost one — her sins were forgiven; 
And Mary went forth in the beauty of Heaven. 

LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 

Thou dear and mystic semblance 

Before whose form I kneel, 
I tremble as I think upon 

The glory thou dost veil, 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 229 

And ask myself, can he, who late 

The ways of darkness trod. 
Meet, face to face and heart to heart, 

His sin-avenging God ? 

My oudge and my Creator, 

If I presume to stand 
Amid Thy pui-e and holy ones, 

It is at Thy command , 
To lay before Thy mercy's seat 

My sorrows and my fears. 
To wail my life and kiss Thy feet 

In silence and in tears. 

Oh, God, that dreadful moment, 

In sickness and in strife, 
When Death and Hell seemed watching 

For the last weak pulse of life. 
When on the waves of sin and pain 

My drowning soul was tost, 
Thy hand of mercy saved me then, 

When hope itself was lost ! 

I hear Thy voice, my Saviour, 

It speaks within my breast, 
" Oh, come to Me, thou weary one, 

I'll hush thy cares to rest. " 
Then from the parched and burning waste 

Of sin, where long I trod, 
I come to Thee, thou stream of Life, 

My Saviour and my God. 



230 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. 

Adieu, my own dear Erin, 

Receive my fond, my last adieu; 

I go, but with me bearing 

A heart still fondly turned to you. 

The charms that nature gave thee 

With lavish hand, shall cease to smile, 

And the soul of friendship leave thee. 
Ere I forget my own green isle. 

Ye fields where heroes bounded 

To meet the foes of liberty; 
Ye hills that oft resounded 

The joyful shouts of victory; 

Obscured is all your glory. 

Forgotten all your former fame. 

And the minstrel's mournful story 
Now calls a tear at Erin's name. 

But still the day may brighten 

When those tears shall cease to flow, 

And the shout of freedom lighten- ^ 
Spirits now so drooping low. 

Then, should the glad breeze blowing 

Convey the echo o'er the sea. 
My heart with transport glowing 

Shall bless the hand that made thee free. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 231 

LINES TO ERIN. 

When dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee, 
When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore, 
When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee, 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 

When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters, 
When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er. 
When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters, 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 

When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains, 
Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before, 
When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains, 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 

When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever, 
When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore. 
When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping forever. 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 

STANZAS. 

Still green are thy mountains and bright is thy shore, 
And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yoie. 
The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on, 
Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone. 

Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget. 
The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met — 
The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation, 
And waked his young harp with a wild inspiration. 



232 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean, 
Will I cherish thy name with the same deep devotion; 
And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply, 
None loves you more fondly , more truly than I. 



A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD. 

It was the noon of Sabbath, the spring- wind swept the sky, 
And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding scuds did fly, 
And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er all their fields of 

might. 
Like the distant hum of huriying hosts when they muster for 

the fight. 

The fisher marked the changing heaven and high his pinnace 

drew, 
And to her wild and rocky home the screaming sea-bird flew; 
But safely in Cork haven the sheltered bark may rest 
Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its beauteous breast. 

Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port was one 
Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the Sabbath sun; 
And scattered o'er her ample deck were careless hearts and free, 
That laughed to hear the rising wind and mocked the frowning 
sea. 

One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving tide — 
His heart was with his native hills and with his beauteous bride. 
And with the rush of feelings deep his manly bosom strove. 
As he thought of her he had left afar in the spring-time of 
their love. 



JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 233 

What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds his sunny 

brow? 
Why does he look with troubled gaze from port-hole , side and 

prow? 
A moment — 't was a death-like pause — that signal ! can it be ? 
That signal quickly orders the " Confiance" to sea. 

Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying down below, 
And the windlass hoarsely answered to the hoarse and wild 

" heave yo;" 
And vows were briefly spoken then that long had silent lain, 
And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may meet again. 

Now darker lowered the threatening sky and wilder heaved the 

wave, 
And through the cordage fearfully the wind began to rave; 
The sails are set, the anchor weighed — what recks that gallant 

ship? 
Blow on ! Upon her course she springs like greyhound from the 

slip. 

O, heavens! it was a glorious sight, that stately ship to see, 
In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pennant floating free. 
As to the gale with bending tops she made her haughty bow. 
And proudly spurned the waves that burned around her flash- 
ing prow ! 

The sun went down and through the clouds looked out the 

evening star. 
And westward, from old Ocean's head, beheld that ship afar. 
Still onward fearlessly she flew, in her snowy pinion-sweep. 
Like, a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the mountains of the deep. 



234 IRISH POETS A^D novelists: 

It blows a fearful tempest — 'tis the dead watch of the night — 
The Mizen's giant brow is streaked with red and angry light, 
And by its far illuming glance a struggling bark I see. 
Wear, wear! the land, ill-fated one, is close beneath your lee! 

Another flash — they still hold out for home and love and life, 
And under close-reefed topsails maintain th' unequal stiife. 
Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the desperate 

chance — 
Can that be she ? Oh, heavens, it is the luckless " Confiance!" 

Hark ! heard you not that dismal cry ? 'T was stifled in the 

gale— 
Oh! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child and raise the widow's 

wail! 
The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's tranquil sleep — 
But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of the deep. 




REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 

^j^RIN, prolific land of genius, has given birth to 
the Poet-Priest and litterateur whose life and 
labors we briefly here indite. Like many another 
gifted Gael, he died far away from the land which 
birth and boyhood had endeared to him by a thou- 
sand sacrifices and hallowed associations. 

Loughrea, on the banks of the "lordly Shannon," 
claims the honor of giving birth to the Rev. Father 
•Mullin in the year 1833, when Ireland was fast 
recovering from the baneful effects of the odious 
Penal laws. O'Connell was then the uncrowned 
king of his native land. Three years before the 
birth of our poet. Catholic Emancipation, through 
the matchless statesmanship of the Liberator, became 
a startling reality, and the middle class of Catholics, 
who had lost neither the virtues nor the traditions 
of their race, could now reasonably indulge in the 
hope of educating their sons for the learned profes- 
sions. The parents of Michael Mullin dedicated 
him to the service of the Church at the baptismal 
font, and carefully shaped his career and studies to 
tlie destined goal. His primary education was re- 
ceived at St. Jarlath's College, the great seminary of 
the West, and the alr^ia mater of many a learned 

(285) 



236 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



Irishman. Here young Mullin gave unmistakable 
evidence of the talents he possessed, and proved to 
his professors that his mind was cast in no ordinary 
mould. With an enthusiasm which overcomes all 
obstacles he read whatever national literature had 
escaped the vandalism of Englisli officials in Ireland, 




and stored away this well-digested knowledge in his 
capacious mind for future use. 

During the agitation of 1847 he entered the Na- 
tional Ecclesiastical Seminary at Maynooth, near 
Dublin, where he was destined to win high honors 
in scholarship, and where the higher honors and 
dignity of the Priesthood crowned the labors of his 
youth and noble manliood. 



REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 237 

It has been said with truth that among the six hun- 
dred students who thronged the recreation grounds 
and lecture halls of that noble institution, young Mr. 
Mullin never made an enemy. His nature was such 
as to attract and edify all who came in close relation- 
ship with him. He M^as gentle and retiring as a con- 
vent girl, simple and unassuming as a child. While 
yet a mere youth the patriotic genius of the student 
began to assert itself, and the editors of the Nation 
soon discovered in him one of their most valued con- 
tributors of prose and verse. From his initial con- 
tribution " Clonfert " was able to take front rank 
among a staff of writers that had attracted the atten- 
tion and commanded the admiration of Lord Macau- 
lay and some others of his coterie. 

During his connection with the Nation he wrote 
many exquisite lyrics and some ballads of superior 
style and sentiment. As a specimen of the latter 
Ave reproduce here the stirring and widely-popular 
ballad, which first appeared under one of his assumed 
names in the columns of the Nation: 



ARTHUK McCOY. 

While the snow-flakes of winter are falling 
On mountain, and house-top and tree, 

Come olden, weird voices recalling 
The homes of Hy-Faly to me; 



238 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The ramble by river and wild-wood , 
The legends of mountain and glen, 

When the bright, magic mirror of childhood 
Made heroes and giants of men. 

Then I had my dreamings ideal, 

My prophets and heroes sublime, 
Yet I found one, true, living and real, 

Sui'pass all the fictions of time : 
Whose voice thrilled my heart to its centre, 

Whose form tranced m}^ soul and my eye; 
A temple no treason could enter: 

My hero was Ai'thur McCoy. 



As the strong mountain tower spreads its arms. 

Dark, shadowy, silent and tall. 
In our tithe-raids and midnight alarms, 

His bosom gave refuge to all. 
If a mind, clear and calm, and expanded, 

A soul ever soaring and high, 
'Mid a host — gave a right to command it — 

A hero was Arthur McCoy. 

While he knelt with a Christian demeaaor, 

To his priest or his Maker, alone, 
He scorned the vile slave or retainer 

That crouched round the castle or throne. 
The Tudor, the Guelph, the Pretender, 

Were tyi^ants, alike, branch and stem; 
But who'd free our fair land, and defend her, 

A nation, were monarchs to him. 



REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 230 

And this faith in good works he attested , 

When Tone linked the true hearts and brave, 
Eveiy billow of danger he breasted — 

His sword-flash the crest of its wave. 
A standard he captured in Gore}% 

A sword-cut and ball through the thigh 
Were among the mementoes of gloiy 

Recorded of Ai-thur McCoy. 

Long the quest of the law and its beagles, 

His covert the cave and the tree; 
Though his home was the home of the eagles, 

His soul was the soul of the free. 
No toil, no defeat could enslave it. 

Nor franchise nor "Amnesty Bill" — 
No Lord, but the Maker who gave it, 

Could curb the high pride of his will. 

With the gloom of defeat ever laden — 

Seldom seen at the hurling or dance, 
Where, thi^ough blushes, the eye of the maiden 

Looks out for her lover's advance; 
And whenever he stood to behold it, 

A curl of the lip, or a sigh. 
Was the silent reproach that unfolded 

The feelings of Arthur McCoy 

For it told him of freedom o'ershaded — 

That the iron had entered their veins— 
When beauty bears manhood degraded, 

And manhood 's contented in chaias. 



240 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

But he loved that fair race, as a martyr, 

And if his own death could recall 
The blessings of liberty's charter, 

His bosom had bled for them all. 

And he died for his love. I remember, 

On a mound by the Shannon's blue wave, 
On a dark, snowy eve in December, 

I knelt at the patriot's grave. 
The aged were all heavy-hearted — 

No cheek in the graveyard was dry. 
The Sun of our hills had departed — 

God rest you, old Arthur McCoy. 

This ballad became extremely popular in Ireland. 
It is to be found in almost every collection of Irish 
ballad poetry that has appeared during the last forty 
years, either in or out of Ireland. 

Besides the ordinary course of studies in Maynooth, 
which occupies eight years, and embraces Humani- 
ties, Natural Philosophy, Logic and Metaphysics, 
Ecclesiastical History, Scripture and Theology, young 
Mr. Mullin spent a term of three years in the " Dun- 
boyne Establishment." A certificate for this depart- 
ment is the highest literary honor that can be con- 
ferred on a young man in Maynooth, and it is 
obtained only by men of marked ability. Here also 
he won distinction among the master minds of his 
country, and endeared himself to his fellow-students. 
Having completed his extra course in Dunboyne, he 



REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. * 241 

was appointed to a Professor's chair. For some time 
he lectured on English Rhetoric, with honor to him- 
self and the great delight of the students. His 
health, which was never rugged, gave way about this 
time, and the brilliant Rev. Professor was obliged to 
seek the bracing air of his native fields and floods in 
the hope of wooing back his vanished strength and 
intellectual vigor. 

Appointed to a curacy in his native diocese of 
Clonfert, he labored with an earnestness and humility 
that won the admiration of his people. So well, 
indeed, did he succeed as assistant pastor, that the 
Bishop made him administrator of his own parish 
in Loughrea. But the man who could lecture most 
eloquently on learned subjects, write like an inspired 
prophet and labor zealously for the salvation of souls, 
was by no means a success in the administration of 
an important parish. His tastes and mode of thought 
were not in that direction, and Father Mullin soon 
resigned his charge into the hands of his .Bishop, 
with the understanding that he would be permitted 
to join a religious order in Dublin. 

A few months in the close confinement of a 
monastery convinced him that his health was very 
much impaired, and that he must seek other pursuits 
than those of a sedentary life. 



17 



242 • IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

In 1864 he reached the shores of the New World, 
whither the fame of his genius and varied attainments 
had preceded him, and where Archbishop McCloskey 
received him kindly and cordially. The Archbishop 
of New York made Father Mullin Professor of 
Metaphj'-sics and Moral Philosophy in the Provincial 
Ecclesiastical Seminary at Troy. The duties of this 
position were too arduous for his delicate constitu- 
tion, so he was transferred to parochial work in New 
York City, where, his labor being light, he devoted 
considerable of his time to writing for the Metro- 
politan press. After some time spent here, endeavor- 
ing to 

" Woo back the withered flowers of health," 

his physicians urged him to go West, with the hope 
that the change of climate would serve to prolong 
his precious life. In the Universit}^ of Notre Dame, 
Indiana, he taught a class, and wrote sketches for 
the Ave Maria. 

In Chicago he became editor of the Young Catholic 
Guide, which in his hands gathered v new life and 
vigor. 

Here it was that he learned the sad news of the 
death of his parents in Ireland. The bereavement 
broke liis tender and affectionate heart, and ere its 
shadows had cleared away he followed them to his 
reward. 



KEV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 243 

He died far awa}' from his own "sunny Erin" on 
the 23d of April, 1869, and all that is mortal of him 
now lies in Calvary Cemetery, Chicago, Illinois. 

His writings, which are scattered through the 
pages of different magazines and periodicals in two 
hemispheres, have never been collected. 

His best known prose work is "The Two Lovers 
of Flavia Domitilla," which first appeared in the 
Catholic World, and helped, very materially, that 
magazine in the da^^s of its youth. This beautiful 
Catholic story suffers nothing by comparison with 
the late Cardinal Newman's "Calista." The plot is 
full of absorbing interest, and the style in whicli it 
is written attests the oft-repeated truth that " Fathei- 
Michael Mullin was a perfect master of English." 

A poem which he wrote, entitled " The Immaculate 
Conception," attracted the attention of the illustrious 
Cardinal Wiseman, who, in his day, had no superior 
as a judge of the literary merit of original com[)Osi- 
tion appearing in any of the ancient or modern 
languages. Among his writings in verse the " Celtic 
Tongue " is undoubtedly the most widely known 
and best appreciated. It has the characteristics of 
true Celtic genius. With the glow and fervor of the 
Celtic soul, it is pathetic and pithy, and, once read, 
it haunts the memory like some bewitching spell. 

We cannot better end this insufficient memorial of 



244 IRISH POETS AID NOVELISTS: 

a man of brilliant parts, of solid acquirements and 
unsullied patriotism, than by giving in full his 

LAMENT FOR THE CELTIC TONGUE. 

'Tis fading, oh, 'tis fading! like the leaves upon the trees! 
In murmuring tone 'tis dying, like the wail upon the breeze! 
'Tis swiftly disappearing, as footprints on the shore 
Where the Barrow and the Erne, and Loch Swilley's waters 

roar — 
Where the parting sunbeam kisses Lough Corrib in the West, 
And Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon to her breast! 
The language of old Erin, of her history and name — 
Of her monai'chs and her heroes — her glory and her fame — 
The sacred shrine where rested, thro' sunshine and thro' gloom, 
The spirit of her martyrs, as their bodies in the tomb; 
The time-wrought shell, where murmur'd, 'mid centuries of 

wrong, 
The secret voice of Fi-eedom, in annal and in song — 
Is slowly, surely sinking into silent death, at last, 
To live but in the memories of those who love the Past, 

The olden tongue is sinking like a patriarch to rest. 
Whose youth beheld the Tyrian on our Irish coasts a guest; 
Ere the Roman or the Saxon, the Norman or the Dane, 
Had first set foot in Britain, o'er trampled heaps of slain; 
Whose manhood saw the Druid rite at forest-tree and rock — 
And savage tribes of Britain round the shrines of Zernebock; 
And for generations witnessed all the glories of the Gael, 
Since our Celtic sires sung war-songs round the sacred fires of 
Baal. 



EEV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 245 

The tongues that saw its infancy are ranked among the dead, 
And from their graves have lisen those now spoken in their 

stead. 
The glories of okl Erin with her Hberty have gone, 
Yet their halo linger'd round her, while the Gaelic speech 

lived on; 
For 'mid the desert of her woe , a monument more vast 
Tlian all her pillar-towers, it stood — that old Tongue of the Past! 
T is leaving, and for ever, the soil that gave it birth, 
Soon — very soon, its moving tones shall ne'er be heard on earth. 

O'er the island dimly fading, as a circle o'er the wave—* 
Receding, as its people lisp the language of the slave. 
And with it, too, seem fadino- as sunset into night. 
The scattered rays of liberty that lingered in its light. 
For ah! the' long, with filial love, it clung to motherland, 
And Irishmen were Irish still, in language, heart and hand; 
T' install its Saxon rival, proscribed it soon became, 
And Irishmen are Irish now in nothing but in name ; 
The Saxon chain our rio^hts and tongues alike doth hold in thrall. 
Save where amid the Connaught wilds and hills of Donegal — 
And by the shoies of Munster, like the broad Atlantic blast. 
The olden language lingere yet and binds us to the Past. 

Thro' cold neglect 't is dying now; a stranger on our shore! 
No Tara's hall re-echoes to its music as of yore — 
No Lawrence fires our Celtic clans round leaguered Athaclee — 
No Shannon wafts from Limerick's towers their war-songs to 

the sea. 
Ah! magic Tongue, that round us wove its spells so soft and 

dear ! 
Ah! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were as music to the ear! 



246 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Ah! glorious Tongue, whose accents could each C'eltic heart 

enthrall ! 
Ah! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the swollen torrent's 

fall! 
The Tongue, that in the Senate was lightning flashing bright — 
Whose echo in the battle was the thundei' in its might ! 
Tliat Tongue, which once in chieftain's hall poured loud the 

minstrel lay, 
As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old, is silent there to-day! 
That Tongue whose shout dismayed the foe at Cong and Mul- 

laghmast, 
Like those who nobly perished theie , is numliered with the Past ! 

The Celtic Tongue is passing and we stand so coldly by — 
Without a pang within the heart, a tear within the eye — 
Without one pulse for Freedom stiiTed, one effort made to save 
The language of our fathers from dark oblivion's grave ! 
Oh, Erin! vain your efFoi'ts — ^your prayei's for Freedom's crown. 
Whilst offered in the language of the foe that clove it down; 
Be sure that tyranis ever with an art from darkness sprung. 
Would make the conquered nation slaves alike in limb and 

tongue. 
Russia's great Czar ne'ei' stood secure o'er Poland's shattered 

frame. 
Until he trampled from her heart the tongue'that bore her name. 
Oh, Irishmen, be Irish still! stand for the dear old tongue 
Which, as ivy to a ruin, to your native land has clung! 
Oh, snatch this relic from the wreck, the only and the last, 
And cherish in your heart of hearts the language of th(i Past! 



EGBERT DWYER JOYCE. 

||^R. ROBERT D. JOYCE was born in the village 
glEip of Glenisheen, Limerick, Ireland, in the year 
of our Lord, 1830. He came of an old family well and 
\tidely known within tlie borders of Galway for 
daring as well as devotion to the cause of native 
land. The stock also produced many men of letters. 

The mother of our author was Elizabeth O'Dwyer, 
a lineal descendant of the renowned bard and hunts- 
man, John O'Dwyer of the Glens — " Shawn O'Dhear 
na Gleanna" — who after the fall of Limerick became 
a distinguished officer in the French army. 

In the village school young Joyce evinced great 
aptitude for learning, and gave promise of a bright 
future. He was passionately fond of languages, and 
when at an early age he went to Dublin to com- 
plete his education, his familiarity with classic lore 
astonished those who became his preceptors. His 
college career was marked with great success; and 
having secured a medical diploma in the Queen '::5 
College, Dr. Joyce was appointed Professor of Eng- 
lish Literature in the Preparatory Department of the 
Catholic University. Soon after he was elected a 
member of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, having 

(247) 



248 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



for sponsors such distinguished men as the Earl 
of Dunraven and Professor Ingram, the author of 
"Who Fears to Speak of Ninety-eight ?" 

Though these honors came thick and fast upon the 
talented young medico and litterateur, they did not 




satisfy him. British rule in Ireland did not suit his 
ideas of freedom, and he could not and would not 
enjoy such honors while his country smarted under 
the tyrant's lash. His sympath}^ was with the 
Fenian movement for Irish Independence, and his 
pen contributed much, both in prose and verse to 



EGBERT DWYER JOYCE. 249 

fan the flame of rebellion. The eyes of English 
officials were upon him and he knew it. Still greater 
honors, and positions of emolument awaited him, 
could he only be prevailed upon to trample under 
foot his national aspirations and go over to the ranks 
of his country's oppressors. 

Rather than surrender his patriotic principles, 
he followed the heroic example of his ancestors and 
went into voluntary exile. In 1866 he commenced 
the practice of his profession in Boston, where his 
talents were immediately recognized, and his services 
soon held in high esteem. Among the literary men 
of the "Hub" who hailed the advent of the young 
Irish poet may be mentioned such men as ex-Gov. 
Long, John C. Abbott, Wendell Phillips and Dr. 
Oliver Wendel Holmes; and all these remained his 
firm friends and ardent admirers to the end. 

His career in Boston was fraught with success. 
From the exactions of an extremely busy profes- 
sional life he snatched time enough to write a great 
number of books, which became popular even in his 
own day. During " office hours " his ante-room was 
always crowded with sufferers, seeking advice and 
medical treatment. Sick calls came to him not only 
from every quarter of the great cit}^, but also from 
the surrounding towns that are now incorporated 
with and in the city of Boston. He spoke kindly to 
everybody who approached him, and never sent one 



2o() IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

away in a hurry. With the intelligent and educated 
he conversed freely and leisurely, always choosing 
some subject with which he knew his patient was 
familiar. Irish history was his delight. Every phase 
of Erin's long and eventful struggle seemed familiar 
to him as the simple rudiments of the healing art. 
Every stream, ruin and historic })lain from Ban try 
Bay to Lough Foyle, and from Kingston to Galway, 
he knew, and loved with an undying love. How he 
so familiarized himself with the topography of his 
native land — and that, too, during the busy days of 
student life — has always seemed little less than a 
mystery to the writer, who had tlie honor of his 
acquaintance. This fact is amply illustrated by his 
" Ballads of Irish Chivalry," which not only com- 
memorate great events in the struggles of the Gael, 
but also vividly and faithfully describe the scene of 
every battle. 

It was on Erin's elder days, however, that the 
poet-physician gloried to dwell. The days 

When her Kings, with standard of green unfurl'cl, 
Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, 

Ere the emerald gem of the Western world 
Was set in the crown of a stranger, 

seemed to have for Dr. Joyce a peculiar and fascinat- 
ing charm. This period of Irish history it was that 
inspired " Deirdre," his longest, best and most endur- 
ing poem. Yet Erin was dear to him in her sorrow, 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 251 

her suflferings and tears. He himself was a man of 
sorrow and much grief. In his latter days he car- 
ried ahoiit with him a bleeding heart, which thereby 
was rendered all the more sensitive to the pains and 
woes of others. Silently he suffered the throes of 
mental agony that shook his well-knit frame; yet 
betimes would his grief find expression in lines like 
these : 

No kindly counsel of a friend 

With soothing balm the hurt can mend; 

I walk alone in grief, and make 

My bitter moan for her dear sake, 

For loss of love is man's worst woe, 

And I am suffering, and I knoiv. 

Earth, air and sun, and moon and star, 
Oi man's strange soul but mirrors are, 
Bright when the soul is bright, and dark 
As now, without one saving spark, 
While the black tides of sorrow ilow; 
And I am suffering, and I know. 

To my sad eyes that sorrow dims 
The greenest grass the swallow skims, 
The flowers that once were fair to me, 
The meadow and the blooming ti'ee 
Dark as funeral garments grow; 
And I am auffering, and I know. 

This pathetic little song, found in '' The Despair 
of Cuhullin," is nothing but an outward expression 



252 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

of the grief that drove the strong, sweet singer to an 
untimely grave. 

In the spring of 1883 he sickened, and ^ied in the 
Fall of the same year. Followed by the esteem of 
her most distinguished citizens, and bearing with 
him the deep affection of the poor whom he had 
served. Dr. Joyce left Boston for Ireland early in 
September, 1883. The close of the next month wit- 
nessed his burial in the cemeter}^ of Glasnevin. 

About one month before his departure for Ireland 
the writer, in company with a mutual friend, visited 
Dr. Joyce in his rooms, on Chambers street, in 
Boston, and enjoyed his conversation for a space of 
two hours. Though but the shadow of his former 
self, he yet seemed vigorous, and talked eloquently 
nearly all the time. After some remarks relating to 
his forthcoming trip to Ireland, he changed the con- 
versation over to Irish history and literature. His 
ruling passion was still strong. 

The gentleman who accompanied the writer said: 
*' Come what may. Doctor, you have left your im- 
press on the literature of our native land, and estab- 
lished a lasting fame." 

" Fame, I suppose," the writer remarked, '' affords 
very poor consolation to a man when about to close 
his eyes to earthly things." 

" On that point," rejoined the poet, "I do not 
agree with you. I think it affords one great consola- 



BOBEBT DWYEB JOYCE. 253 

tion. It is a great deal to leave behind a name that 
is likely to be cherished in the hearts of a grateful 
people. 

" I do not, however," he continued, " draw all my 
consolation from that source. The priest was with 
me yesterday, and I am prepared for any kind of a 
journey now. If the worst comes, I am not without 
hope of a happy resurrection." 

It is more than a quarter of a century since, under 
the signature of ''Feardana," Dr. Joyce's first verses 
appeared in The Harp, a magazine then published 
in the City of Cork, under the editorial management 
of M. J. McCann the gifted author of "O'Donnell 
Aboo." The force and spirit of his verses attracted 
general attention among the Nationalists, and his 
pen soon found employment in the columns of the 
Hibernian Magazine also. '' The Blacksmith of Lime- 
rick," which appeared at this period, gained for 
him a wide popularity, and established his reputation 
as a poet on a firm and enduring basis. He became 
a regular contributor to the Dublin Nation; and the 
London Universal News, edited at that time b}^ the 
late John Francis O'Donnell, eagerly sought the 
productions of his pen, for which he was well paid 
in all instances. It was not in the domain of poetry 
alone that /'Feardana" (the song-maker) excelled; 
he also wrote racy sketches for the press. A very 
interesting novel "The Squire of Castleton," which 



254 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

appeared as a serial in the Dublin Irishman, received 
high praise from the critics, and the opinion prevails 
that, had he devoted his time and talents to fiction 
instead of medicine, he would have outrivaled 
Samuel Lover as a novelist. His "Irish Fireside 
Tales" and "Legends of the Wars in Ireland," col- 
lected and compiled during the busiest period of his 
professional career, are replete with genuine Irish 
wit and humor. These works added to the fast- 
increasing popularity of the author, and from them 
the publisher reaped a rich harvest. 

The writer of this sketch can never forget the im- 
pression made upon his mind by the perusal of our 
author's " Ballads of Irish Chivalry, Songs and 
Poems," when they first appeared in 1872, from the 
press of Patrick Donahoe, Boston. This work, which 
was well received at home and abroad, contained all 
the poems v/ritten by Dr. Joyce up to that date. 

The appearance of this volume it was that evoked 
the following beautiful tribute from the brilliant 
Bard of Thomond, Michael O'Hogan:- 

TO EGBERT D. JOYCE, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEMS. 

Bold master of the Irish lyre! sweet mouth of song, all hail! 
Feardana of the lofty verse! Ard Filea of the Gael! 
As joys the thirsty traveler when a pure spring ti"ickles near, 
So burst thy living numbers on my soul's enraptured ear! 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 255 

The silent, cloud-robed grandeur of the mountain solitude, 
The bowery vale, the flowery plain, the emerald- vested wood; 
The gaping breach, the 'league red town, the reckless battle- 
throng — 
All glow before my spirit, in the pictui-es of thy song! 

The mystic Spirit- world , with its fairy splendor gay, 
Thy daring genius has unlocked with Poesy's magic key; 
The sun-ray'd jewels of Romance, with all their pristine light, 
Burst, flashing from thy wizard pen, upon our charmed sight! 

Sweet Ollav of the golden lay! oh, would my simple praise 
Add one blight floweret to the crown of thy immortal bays, 
And place thy brilliant page — a gem — in every Irish hand — 
Feardaiia of romantic song were honored in our land ! 

Then pour upon thy country's ear thy harp-notes wild and 

strong, 
And melt into our burning hearts the jewels of thy song; 
And let thy eagle Muse tower up to heaven, on flashing wing, 
'Till Erin, with admiring soul, delig-hts to hear thee sing! 

Here, by old Shannon's noble flood, I drink thy tuneful lore, 
And, as my spirit quaffs thy strain, I thirst and long for more! 
Back on the spring-tide of thy verse I float to olden times. 
And bathe my fancy in the rays of radiant Fairy climes! 

"Deirdre" and "Blanid" are, however, the works 
on which the fame of Dr. Joyce securely rests. They 
are the crowning glory of his labors. The former 
has heen pronounced by no less a critic than James 
Russell Lowell "the greatest epic of the nineteenth 
century." 



256 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

To the writing of this, Dr. Joyc'e brought all the 
information attainable on the subject. He had read 
and digested everything that could be found pertain- 
ing to the story of "Deirdre" and the sons of Usna^ 
before a single line of this gorgeous poem was writ- 
ten. For fifteen years, it is said, he had been 
endeavoring to " strike the proper strain." At last, 
he succeeded, and in this wise: 

About four o'clock, one fine St. Patrick's morning, 
he was returning by way of St. Patrick's Bridge from 
a sick call in South Boston. As usual, holding his 
inseparable blackthorn in the middle, he strode 
proudly along whistling "St. Patrick's Day in the 
Morning." Immediately he struck the long-looked- 
for keynote to his poem, and before reaching his 
office that morning, " The Feast at the House of 
Feilimid " was well under way. He went along the 
rest of the journey in silence with bowed head and 
vision introverted, composing: 

It happened in Eman at the joyous time 
When wood-flowers bloomed and roses in their prime 
Laughed round the garden, and the new-fledged bird 
'Mid the thick leaves his downy winglets stirred. 

These are the initial couplets of Deirdre, in which 
adventure, love and war are described with a force 
and felicity of language unequalled in any epic we 
have ever read. It contains many pictures of nature 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 257 

exquisitely drawi>. Email's palace garden is painted 
thus : 

Near Email's hall, beyond the outward fosse, 
There was a slope all gay with golden moss, 
Green grass and lady ferns and daisies white, 
And fairy -caps, the wandering bee's delight. 
And the wild thyme that scents the upland breeze, 
And clumps of hawthorn and fair ashen trees. 
And at its foot there spread a little plain 
That never seemed to thirst for dew or rain; 
For round about it waved a perfumed wood, 
And through its midst there ran a ciystal flood 
With many a murmuring song and elfln shout, 
In whose clear pools the crimson-spotted trout 
Would turn his tawny side to sun and sky, 
Or sparkling upward catch the summer fly; 
On whose green banks the iris in its pride, 
Flaming in blue and gold, grew side by side 
With meadow-sweet and snow-white ladies-gowns. 
And daffodils that shook their yellow crowns 
In wanton" dalliance with each breeze that blewj 
And there the birds sang songs for ever new 
To those that loved them as friend loveth friend; 
And there the cuckoo first his way would wend 
From far-off* climes and kingdoms year by year, 
And rest himself and shout his message clear 
Round the glad woods, that winter was no more, 
And summer's reign begins from shore to shore. 



i8 



258 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The poet's genius as a portrait painter is strikingly 
illustrated in this passage: 

Then rose an aged lord, with haughty air 
And shaggy brows and grizzled beard and hair, 
Whose fierce eye o'er the margin of his shield 
Had gazed from wai's first ridge on many a field, 
Unblinking at the foe that on him glared , 
And might be ten to one, for all he cared. 

And who that has ever strolled through the lovely 
vales of Erin can fail to recall and recognize this 
autumn scene, depicted by the poet's pen: 

Upon the spreading thorn 
The fieldfares bickered at the ruddy haw. 
The last fruit of the year; the thievish daw 
Fought on the palace gable with his wife. 
And the fierce magpie, born to ceaseless strife, 
Swung on the larch and told his household woes, 
Or plumed his tail and threatened all his foes 
With vicious screams and angry rhapsodies; 
And loud the finches chirruped in the trees. 

And then, as so frequently happens there in the 
late autumn: 

Spiralling adown the sky, the fii-st great feathery snowflakes 

made their way, ' v 

Till all the garden changed from brown to gray. 

It. is in battle bouts, however, that the author's 
skill manifests itself to the best advantage: 

Strong knee to knee, and bloody sword to sword 
And the deep vale the echoing tenors roar'd. 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 259 

The taking of -the Fomorian stronghold hy the 
three brothers, Naisi, Ainli and Ardan is referred to 
in the following lines: 

Mercy fled, 
The field despairing; Rage, or coward Dread 
Possessed all hearts; while raising her wild shriek 
Slaughter with crimson wings and raven beak, 
Flapped the black sky above exultingly. 
Till, as the sinking moon from o'er the sea 
Cast her last beams ere morn across the isle. 
Weirdly they glimmered on the ghastly pile 
Of pirate dead that cumbered all the strand. 
Whereby strong Naisi stood, in his left hand 
Holding aloft the grim and gory head 

Of the Fomorian King! 

There is nothing in the ^neid that surpasses this 
in dramatic eifect. That the reading public imme- 
diately recognized the high merit of this work is 
proved by the fact that ten thousand copies of it 
were sold in one week after publication. 

''Blanid" is an epic which equally abounds in 
bold metaphor and beautiful simile. 

Unlike the author of " Lalla Rookh," Joyce 

" Had no heart nor hand, 

For foreign theme in foreign land. " 

He himself was Irish to the core, and all his themes 
were Irish too. This truth he beautifully sets forth 
in his proem to " Blanid." So far have we outrun 



260 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

the limits of our space that room can be given to 
only one stanza of this preface: 

Though many a field I've searched of foreign lore, 

And found great themes for song, yet ne'er would I 
Seelc Greece, or Araby, or Persia's shore 

For heroes and the deeds of days gone by; 

To my own native land my heart would fly, 
Howe'er my fancy wandered, and I gave 

My thoughts to her and to the heroes high 
She nursed in ages gone and strove to save 
Some memory of their deeds from dark oblivion's wave ! 

" Deirdre " and " Blanid " were published by Rob- 
erts Brothers, Boston, in the '^ No Name " series; and, 
long before the authorship was known, their merit 
was recognized. 



THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. 

He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more, 
To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle's roar; 
He said, " The breach they're mounting, the Dutchman's mur- 
dering crew — 
I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do! 

" Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well; 
'Tis Sarsiield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or 

' shell;"— 
" Ah sure," cried both, " the horse can wait, for Sai^sfield's on 

the wall. 
And where you go we'll follow, with you to stand or fall!" 



BOBERT DWYER JOYCE. 261 

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, 
His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet; — 
High on the breach of Limerick with dauntless hearts they 

stood, 
Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the 

blood. 

" Now look you, brown-haired Moran; and mark you, swarthy 

Ned, . 
This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman's head ! 
Hurrah! upon their bloody path, they're mounting gallantly; 
And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me." 

The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave, — 
A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive; 
He pointed and he parried , but it was all in vain ! 
For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain! 

The next that topped the rampart, he was a Colonel bold; 
Briffht, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with 

gold — 
" Gold is no match for iron," the doughty blacksmith said. 
And with that ponderous hammei' he cracked his foeman's head. 

"Hurrah for gallant Limerick! " black Ned and Moran cried, 
As on the Dutchman's leaden heads their hammers well they 

plied; 
A bomb-shell bui'st between them — one fell without a groan, 
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown. 

Brave smith! brave smith! cried Sarsfield, beware the treacher- 
ous mine ! 

Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is 
thine!" 



262 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained 

wall, 
As high into the shuddering air went foeman, bieach and all! 

Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high, — 
Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the 

sky; 
And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith 

fell;— 
He thought upon his 'prentice boys, — they were avenged well. 

On foeman and defender a silence gathered down; 

'T was broken by a triumph shout that shook the ancient town, 

As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, 

And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do. 

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river's side , 
He hammered on the foe's pontoon, to sink it in the tide; 
The timber, it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain; 
"Mavronef 't won't break!" the blacksmith roared; "I'll try 
their heads again!" 

He rushed upon the flying ranks; his hammer ne'er was slack, 
For in thro' blood and bone it crashed, thro' helmet and thro* 

jack; 
He's ta'en a Holland captain beside the red pontoon. 
And " Wait you here," he boldly cries; " I'll senrj you back full 

soon!" 

Dost s^e this goiy hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day, 
And yours 't will crack, if you don't stand and list to what I 

say;— 
Here! take it to your cursed King, and tell him, softly, too, 
'T would be acquainted with his skull if he were here , not you !" 



ROBERT DWYEK JOYCE. 263 

The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong; 
He shod the steed of Sarefield, but o'er it sang no song; 
"Oohone! my boys are dead!" he cried; "their loss I'll long 

deplore , 
But comfort's in my heart, their graves are red with foreign 

gore. " 

SWEET GLENGARIFF'S WATER. 

Where wildfowl swim upon the lake 

At morning's early shining, 
I'm sure, I'm sure my heart will break 

With sadness and repining. 

As I went out one morning sweet, 

I met a farmer's daughter, 
With gown of blue, and milk-white feet, 

By sweet Glengariff 's water. 

Her jet-black locks, with wavy shine. 

Fell sweetly on her shoulder. 
And, ah! they make my heart repine 

Till I again behold her. 

She smiled and passed me strangely by, 

Though fondly I besought her, 
And long I'll rue her laughing eye 

By sweet Glengariff 's water. 

Where wild fowl swim upon the lake 

At early morning splendor, 
Each day my lonely path I'll take. 

With thoughts full sad and tender. 



264 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

I'll meet my love, and, sure, she'll stay 
To hear the tale I've brought her — 

To marry me this meiiy May, 
By sweet Glengariff's water. 

THE GREEN AND THE GOLD. 

In the soft, blooming vales of our country, 

Two colors shine brightest of all , 
O'er mountain and moorland and meadow, 

On cottage and old castle wall ; 
They shine in the gay summer garden, 

And glint in the depths of the wold, 
And they gleam on the banner of Ireland, 

Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 
Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 

By the fresh winds of Freedom outrolled, 
As they shine on the brave Irish banner, 

Our coloi-s, the Green and the Gold! 

In the days of Fomorian and Fenian, 

These colors flashed bright in the ra}' ; 
And their gleam kept the fierce Roman Eagles 

In Rome — conquered Britain at bay; 
When Conn fought his hundred red battles 

And the lightning struck Dathi of old, 
As he bore through Helvetia's wild gorges 

Our colors, the Green and the Gold. 
Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 

May they flourish for ages untold ! 
May they blaze in the vanguard of freedom, 

Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 265 

In these dark days of doom and disaster, 

Is it dead, the old love for our land ? 
Are our bosoms less brave than our fathers ? 

Comes the sword-hilt less deft to our hand ? 
No! we've proved us the wide world over, 

Wherever war's surges have rolled , 
And we'll raise once again in Old Ireland 

Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 
Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 

And hurrah for the valiant and bold, 
Who will raise them supreme in Old Ireland , 

Our colors, the Green and the Gold' 

THE RAPPAREE'S HORSE AND SWORD. 

My name is MacSheehy, from Feal's swelling flood, 
A rapparee rover by mountain and wood; 
I've two trusty comrades to serve me at need — 
This sword at my side and my gallant gray steed. 

Now where did I get them , — my gallant gray steed 
And this sword, keen and trusty, to serve me at need? , 
This sword was my father's— in battle he died — 
And I reared bold Isgur by Feal's woody side. 

I've said it, and say it, and care not who hear, 
Myself and gray Isgur have never known fear; 
There's a dint on my helmet, a hole through his ear; 
'T was the same bullet made them, at Lim'iick last year! 

And the soldier who fired it was still ramniing down. 
When this long sword came right with a slash on his crown; 
Dhar Dhia! but he'll ne'er fire a musket again. 
For his skull lies in two at the side of the glen! 



26G IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

When they caught us one day at the castle of Brugh, 
Of our black-hearted foemen, the deadliest crew, 
Like a bolt from the thunder, gray Isgur went through, 
And my sword! long they'll weep at the sore taste of you! 

Together we sleep 'neath the wild crag or tree, — 
My soul ! but there ne'er were such comrades as we ! 
I, Brian the Rover, my two friends at need, 
This sword at my side and my gallant gray steed ! 

THE CAILIN RUE. 

When first I sought her, by Cashin's water 

Fond love I brought her, fond love I told; 
At day's declining I found her twining 

Her bright locks shining like red, red gold. 
She raised her eyes then in sweet surprise then — 

Ah ! how unwise then such eyes to view ! 
For free they found me, but fast they bound me, 

Love's chain around me for my Oailin Rue. 

Fair flowers were blooming, the meads illuming, 

All fast assuming lich summer's pride , 
And we were roving, truth's" raptui-e pi^oving, 

Ah! fondly loving, by Cashin's side; 
Oh love may wander, but ne'er could sunder 

Our hearts, that fonder each moment grew, 
Till friends delighted such love requited. 

And my hand was plighted to my Cailin Rue. 

Ere May's bright weather o'er hill and heathei", 
Sweet tuned together rang our bridal bells; 

But at May's dying, on fate relying. 
Fate left us sighing by Cashin's dells; 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 267 

Oh ! sadly perished the bliss we cherished ! 

But far lands flourished o'er the ocean blue, 
So as June came burning, I left Erin mourning, 

No more returning with my Cailin Rue. 

Our ship went sailing with course unfailing, 

But black clouds, trailing, lowered o'er the main, 
And its wild dirge singing, came the storm out springing, 

That good ship flinging back , back again ! 
A sharp rock under tore her planks asunder. 

While the sea in thunder swallowed wreck ana crew; 
One dark wave bore me where the coast towered o'er me. 

But dead before me lay my Cailin Rue ! 



THE SACK OF DUNBUI. 

A. D. 1602. 

They who fell in manhood's pride. 
They who nobly flghting died , 

Fade their mem'ries never, never; 
Theirs shall be the deathless name 

Shining brighter, grander ever, 
Up the diamond crags of Fame ! 
Time these glorious names shall lift 
Up from sunbright clift to clift — 

Upward ! to eternity ! 

The ffodlike men of brave Dunbui! 



268 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Glorious men and godlike men, 
Well they stemmed the Saxon then, 

When he came, with all his powers, 
Over river, plain and sea, 

'Gainst the tall and bristling towel's 
Of the Spartan-manned Dunbui — 
Traitor Gael and Saxon churl, 
Burning in their wrath to hurl 

Ruin on the bold and free 

Warrior men of brave Dunbui ! 

Thomond with his traitors came, 
Carew breathing blood and flame; 

First he sent his message in 

To tlie Southern gunsmen three, 

Message black as hell and sin. 
Sin and Satan e'er could be; 
Would they, trusting f re res, betray, 
Would they this, for golden pay ? 

Demon, no! foul treacheiy 

Never dwelt in strong Dunbui : 

Onward, then, that sunny June, 
On they came in the fiery noon, 

On where frowned the stubborn keep 
O'er the rock-subduing flood; ^ 

First they took Beare's island, steep. 
And drenched its crags in helpless blood. 
Nought could save — child's, woman's tears — 
Cui-se upon their ciTiel speai-s! 

Oh, that sight was hell to see 

By thy bristling walls , Dunbui ! 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 269 

Nearer yet , they ci'owd and come , 

With taunting and yelling, and thundering drum, 

With taunting and yelling the hold they environ, 
And swear that its towers and defendere must fall, 

While the cannon are set, and their death-hail of iron 
Crash wildly on bastion and turret and wall; 
And the ramparts are torn from their base to their brow — 
Ho ! will they not yield to the murderers now ? 

No ! its huge towers shall float over Cleena's bright sea 

Ere the Gael prove a craven in lonely Dunbui ! 

Like the fierce god of battle, MacGeoghegan goes 
From rampart to wall, in the face of his foes; 

Now his voice rises high o'er the caiinon's fierce din, 

Whilst the taunt of the Saxon is loud as before, 
But a yell thunders up from his warriors within, 

And they dash through the gateway, down, down to the 
shore. 
With their chief rushing on, like a storm in its wrath, 
They sweep the cowed Saxon to death in their path; 
Ah! dearly he'll purchase the fall of the free, 
Of the lion-souled warriors of lonely Dunbui ! 

Leaving terror behind them, and death in their train, 
Now they stand on their walls 'mid the dying and slain. 
And the night is around them — the battle is still — 

That lone summer midnight, ah! short is its reign, 
For the morn springe th upward, and valley and hill 
Fling back the fierce echoes of conflict again. 



270 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And see how the foe rushes up to the breach, 
Towards the green waving banner he yet may not reach, 
For look how the Gael flings him back to the sea, 
From the blood-reeking ramparts of lonely Dunbui ! 

Night Cometh again, and the white stai-s look down 
From the hold to the beach, where the batteries frown; 

Night Cometh again, but affrighted she flies, 

Like a black Indian queen from the fierce panther's roar. 

And morning leaps up in the wide-spreading skies, 
To his welcome of thunder and flame evermore ; 
For the guns of the Saxon crash fearfully there. 
Till the walls and the towei"s and the ramparts are bare, 

And the foe make their last mighty swoop on the free 

The brave-hearted warriors of lonely Dunbui! 

Within the red breach see MacGeoghegan stand, 
With the blood of the foe on his aim and his brand; 
And he turns to his warriors, and " Fight we," says he, 

" For country, for freedom, religion, and all; 
Better sink into death, and for ever be free. 

Than yield to the false Saxon's mercy and thrall!" 
And they answer, with brandish of sparth and of glaive: 
* ' Let them come ; we will give them a welcome and grave ; 
Let them come — from their swoids coukl we flinch, could we 

flee, 
When we fight for our country, our God, and Dunbui!" 



ROBERT DWYEK JOYCE. 271 

They came, and the Gael met their merciless shock — 
Flung them backward like spray from the lone Skellig rock; 

But they rally, as wolves springing up to the death 
Of their brother of famine, the bear of the snow — 

He hurls them adown to the ice-fields beneath. 

Rushing back to his dark norland cave from the foe; — 
So up to the Ijreaches they savagely bound. 
Thousands still throncrino- beneath and around, 

Till the finn Gael is driven — till the brave Gael must flee 

In, into the chambere of lonely Dunbui! 

In chamber, in cellar, on stairway and tower, 
Evermore they resisted the false Saxon's power; 

Through the noon, through the eve, and the darkness of night 
The clangor of battle rolls fearfully there. 

Till the morning leaps upward in gloiy and light. 
Then, where are the true-hearted warriors of Beare? 
They have found them a refuge from tonnent and chain; 
They have died with their chief, save the few who remain, 

And that few — oh, fair Heaven! on the high gallows tree, 

They swing by the ruins of lonely Dunbui ! 

Long, in the hearts of the brave and the free 
Live the warriors who died in the lonely Dunbui — 

Down Time's silent river their fair names shall go, 
A light to our race towards the long-coming day; 

Till the billows of time shall be checked in their flow 
Can we find names so sweet for remembrance as they ? 
And we will hold their memories for ever and aye , 
A halo, a glory that ne'er shall decay; 

We'll set them as stai-s o'er Eternity's sea. 

The bright names of the warrioi's who fell at Dunbui! 



272 IRI8H POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

SAKSFIELD'S RIDE; OR, THE AMBUSH OF SLIAV 

BLOOM. 

[The generally- received historical account of the exploit related in the 
following ballad differs in several points from the traditionary version. And 
yet the latter should not be despised, for the peasantry of Limerick and 
Tipperary have stories of the incident, all agreeing vith regard to the ride of 
Galloping O'Hogan. The songs also of the time preserve the name of that 
celebrated horseman and outlaw in connection with the affair. It maybe also 
stated that in every song and story of the time, King William is always nick- 
named "Dutch Bill," a cognomen by which he is even to the present day 
remembered in many parts of Munster.] 

PART THE FIRST. 

" Come up to the hill, Johnnie Moran, and the de'il's in the 
sight you will see: 

The men of Dutch Bill in the lowlands are marching o'er valley 
and lea; 

Brave cannon they bring for their warfare, good powder and 
bullets galeor, 

To batter the grey walls of Limerick adown by the deep Shan- 
non shore ! " 

They girded their corselets and sabers that morning so glorious 

and still; 
They leapt like good men to their saddles, and took the lone 

path to the hill; 
And deftly they handled their bridles as they rode thro' each 

green, fairy coom. 
Each woodland, and broad rocky valley, till they came to the 

crest of Sliav Bloom ! 

" Look down to the east, Johnnie Moran, where the wings of 

the morning are spread. 
Each basnet you see in the sunlight it gleams on an enemy's head ; 



BOBERT DWYER JOYCE. 273 

Look down on their long line of baggage, their huge guns of 

iion and brass, 
That, as sure as my name is O'Hogan, will ne'er to the William- 

ites pass ! 

" Spur, then, to the green shores of Brosna — see Ned of the 

hills on your way — 
Have all the brave boys at the muster by Brosna at close of the 

day; 
I'll ride off for Sarsfield to Lira'rick, and tell what I've seen 

from the hill — 
If Sarsfield won't capture their cannon, by the Cross of Kildare, 

but we will !" 

Away to the north went young Johnnie, like an aibalist bolt in 

his speed. 
Away to the west brave O'Hogan gives bridle and spur to his 

steed; 
Through the fierce highland torrent he dashes, through copse 

and down greenwood full fain, 
Till he biddeth farewell to the mountains, and sweeps o'er the 

flat lowland plain ! 

You'd search from the giey Rocks of Cashel each side to the 

blue ocean's rim. 
Through green dale, and hamlet, and city, but you'd ne'er find 

a horseman like him; 
With his foot, as if grown to the stirrup, his knee, with its 

rooted hold ta'en, 
With his seat in the saddle so graceful, and his sure hand so 

light on the rein ! 



19 



274 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

As the cloud-shadow skims o'er the meadows, when the fleet- 
winged summer- winds blow, 

By war- wasted castle and village, and streamlet and crag doth 
he go; 

The foam-flakes drop quick from his charger, yet never a bridle 
draws he , 

Till he baits in the hot, blazing noontide by the cool fair}' well 
of Lisbui ! 

He rubbed down his charger full fondly , the dry grass he heaped 

for its food , 
He ate of the green cress and shamrock , and drank of the sweet 

crystal flood; 
He's up in his saddle and flying o'ei- wood track and broad 

heath once more, 
Till the sand 'neath the hoofs of his charger is crunch'd by the 

wide vShannon's shore ! 

For never a ford did he linger, but swam his good charger 

across — 
It clomb the steep bank like a wolf-dog — then dashed over 

moorland and moss. 
The shepherds who looked from the highland, they crossed 

themselves thrice as he passed, 
And they said 'twas a sprite from Crag Aeivil went by on the 

wings of the blast. 

PART THE SECOND. 

Dutch Bill sent a summons to Limerick — a summons to open 

their gate , 
Their fortress and stores to surrender, else the pike and the gun 

were their fate. 



ROBEKT DWYER JOYCE. 275 

Brave Sarefield he answered the summons: "Though all holy 

Ireland in flames 
Blazed up to the skies to consume us, we'll hold the good town 

for King James." 

Dutch Bill, when he listed the answer, he stamped, and he 

vowed, and he swore 
That he'd bury the town, ere he'd leave it, in grim fiery ruin 

and gore ; 
From black Ireton's Fort with his cannon he hammered it well 

all the day. 
And he wished for his huge guns to back him that were yet 

o'er the hills far away. 

The soft curfew bell from Saint Mary's tolled out in the calm 

sunset air. 
And Sarsfield stood high on the rampart and looked o'er the 

green fields of Clare; 
And anon from the copses of Cratloe a flash to his keen eyes 

there came, 
'Twas the spike of O'Hogan's bright basnet glist'ning forth in 

the red sunset flame ! 

Then down came the galloping horseman with the speed of a 
culverin ball. 

And he reined up his foam-flecked charger with a gallant gam- 
bade by the wall; 

And his keen eye searched tower, fosse and rampart — they lay 
all securely and still — 

And then to the bold Lord of Lucan, he told what he'd seen 
from the hill ! 



276 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The good steed he rests in the stable, the bold rider feasts at the 

board , 
But the gay, laughing revel once ended, he'll soon have a feast 

for his sword, 
And now he looks out at the window, where the moonbeams 

flash pale on the squaie, 
' For Sarsfield, full dight in his harness, with five hundred bold 

troopei-s, is there! 

He's mounted his steed in the moonlight, and away from the 

North Gate they go. 
Where the woods cast their black spectral shadows, and the 

streams with their lone voices flow ; 
The peasants awoke fiom their slumbers, and prayed, as they 

swept through the glen, 
For they thought 'twas the great Garodh Earla that thundered 

adown with his men! 

The grey, ghastly midnight was 'round them, the banks they 

were rocky and steep; 
The hills with one sullen roar echoed, for the huge stream was 

angry and deep; 
But the bold Lord of Lucan he cared not, he asked for no light 

save the moon's. 
And he's forded the broad, lordly Shannon with his galloping 

guide and dragoons. 

The star of the morning out glimmered, as fast by Lisearly they 

rode ; 
As they swept round the base of Comailta the sun on their 

bright helmets glowed. 



ROBEKT DWYER JOYCE. 277 

Now the steeds in the valley are grazing, and the horsemen 

crouch down in the broom, 
And Sarsfield peers out like an eagle on the low-lying plains 

from Sliav Bloom. 

PART THE THIRD. 

O'Hogan is down in the valleys, a watch on the track of the 

foe, 
Johnnie Mo ran from Erosna is marching, that his men be in 

time for a blow. 
All day from the bright blooming heather the tall Lord of Lucan 

looks down 
On the roads, where the train of Dutch Billy on its slow march 

of danger is bowne. 

The red sunset died in the heavens; night fell over mountain 

and shore; 
The moon shed her light on the valleys, and the stare glimmered 

brightly once more; 
Then Sai*sfield sprang up from the heather, for a horse tramp 

he heard on the waste, 
Twas O'Hogan, the black mountain sweeping, like a specter of 

night , in his haste ! 

" Lord Lucan, they've camped in the forest that skirts Bally- 

neety's gi"ey tower; 
I've found out the path to fall on them and slay in the dread 

midnight hour; 
They have powder, pontoons, and great cannons — Dhar Dhia! 

but their long tubes are bright ! 
They have treasure galeor for the taking, and their watchword 

is ' Sarafield ! ' to-night. " 



278 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The star of the midnight was shining when the gallant dragoons 
got the word, 

Each sprang with one bound to his saddle, and looked to his 
pistols amd sword; 

And away down Comailta's deep valleys the guide and bold 
Sarsfield are gone, 

While the long stream of helmets behind them in the cold moon- 
light glimmered and shone. 

They stayed not for loud brawling river, they looked not for 
togher or path , 

They tore up the long street of CuUen with the speed of the 
storm in its wrath; 

When on old Ballyneety they thundered, the sentinel's chal- 
lenge rang clear — 

" Ho! Sarsfield 's the word," cried Lord Lucan, " and you'll soon 
find that Sarsfield is here ! " 

He clove through the sentinel's basnet, he rushed by the side of 

the glen, 
And down on the enemy's convoy, where they stood to their 

cannons like men; 
His troopers with pistol and saber, through the camp like a 

whirlwind tore. 
With a crash and a loud-ringing war-cry, and a plashing and 

stamping in gore ' 

The red-coated convoy they've sabered, Dutch Billy's mighty 

guns they have ta'en., 
And they laugh as they look on their capture, for they'll ne'er 

see such wonders again; 



EGBERT DWYER JOYCE. 279 

Those guns, with one loud roaring volley, might batter a strong 

mountain down, 
Wirristhru for its gallant defenders, if they e'er came to Limerick 

town! 

They filled them and ramme<:l them with powder, they turned 
down their mouths to the clay. 

The diy casks they piled all around them, the baggage above 
did they lay; 

A mine train they laid to the powder, afar to the greenwood 
out thrown — 

" Now, give us the match! " cried Lord Lucan, "and an earth- 
quake we'll have of our own!" 

O'Hogan the quick fuse he lighted — it whizzed — then a flash 

and a glare 
Of broad blinding brightness infernal buret out in the calm 

midnight air; 
A hoarse crash of thunder- volcanic roared up to the bright stars 

on high, 
And the splinters of guns and of baggage showered flaming 

around through the sky! 

The firm earth it rocked and and it trembled, the camp showed 

its red pools of gore. 
And old Ballyneety's grey castle came down with a crash and a 

roar; 
The fierce sound o'er highland and lowland rolled on like the 

dread earthquake's tramp. 
And it wakened Dutch Bill from his slumbers and gay dreams 

that night in his camp ! 



280 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



Lord Lucan dashed back o'er the Shannon ere the bright star of 

morning arose , 
With his men through the North Gate he clattered, unhurt and 

unseen by his foes; 
Johnny Moran rushed down from Comailta — not a foe was alive 

for his blade , 
But his men searched the black gory ruins, and the deil's in the 

spoil that they made ! 





JAMKS CLARKNCK MAXCiAN. 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



S^ERENGER, the Galilean Nightingale, was 
pB| ushered into life in the humble dwelling of 
a tailor, and Burns — Nature's " bonnie bard" — first 
opened his eyes to the reality of existence in a peas- 
ant's lowly cot. Like these illustrious favorites of 
the lyric muse, the subject of our present paper was 
born in humble, inauspicious circumstances His 
father, a native of Limerick County, about 1801 set- 
tled in Fishamble street, Dublin, where he married 
a Miss Smith, who became the mother of James 
Clarence, in the early part of that eventful year (1803) 
which witnessed the noble Emmet's death upon a 
scaffold and hailed the birth of gentle Gerald Griffin. 
Of his school-boy days we know little more than 
that he received the rudiments of an education in 
Derby lane. What the direction of his young ideas 
was the school registers say not. But this tabella 
erassa is not a proof that he was devoid of talent; for 
it is a fact well attested by experience that those who 
run most successfully through their college curricu- 
lum very seldom distinguish themselves in the broad 

arena of the world. 

(281) 



282 IRISH roETs and novelists: 

We do know, however, that the youthful Mangan 
had a gentle, loving spirit, and that as attorney's 
clerk he supported his mother and two sisters, who 
were dependent on him for sustenance; he toiled all 
day over mechanical formulas of laAV, in order to 
fulfill his filial and fraternal obligations, and pro- 
longed his vigils far into the night in pursuit of 
knowledge. A few years of well-directed labor and 
almost undivided attention sufficed to make him a 
prodigy of linguistic learning. Besides being versed 
in most of the modern and two or more of the 
ancient languages, he acquired an immese fund of 
general knowledge; but at what cost of energy and 
application those students alone can calculate who 
have laid down the principle that to acquire a great 
store of knowledge requires great labor. In the lan- 
guage of vEneas: 

Tantse molis erat Romanam condere gentem. 

Thus passed his youth in acquiring the means to 
an end of triumph and literary fame. His triumphs, 
in a worldly point of view, were indeed like angels' 
visits — few and far between. " His fate," says John 
Mitchel, "was the common fate of poets — he loved 
and was disappointed." An avalon of beauty and 
ineffable bliss dawned upon his vigorous imagina- 
tion, and his feelings found expression in song. The 
maiden on whom he lavished his love was enraptured 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 283 

for a while by the sweetness and depth of his effu- 
sions. She encouraged his advances until every fibre 
of his soul was entwined round her, until she became 
a part of his very existence; and then, meanly bar- 
tering the pure and generous affections of a noble 
soul for the luxuries of a rich dwelling, she tore him 
from her heart and rudely cast him into "outer 
darkness." 

One of his translations gives color and form to 
his OAvn feelings on this occasion: 

AND THEN NO MORE. 

I SAW her once, one little while, and then no more; 
'Twas Eden's light on Earth awhile, and then no more. 
Amid the throng she pass'd along the meadow -floor; 
Spring seem'd to smile on Earth awhile , and then no more. 
But whence she came, which way she went, what garb she 

wore, 
I noted not. I gazed awhile, and then no more. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more; 
'T was Paradise on earth awhile, and then no more; 
Oh! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore ? 
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more. 
The shallop of my Peace is wrecked on Beauty's shore; 
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more! 

I saw her once , one little while , and then no more ; 

Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more. 



284 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Her presence thrill'd and lighted to its inner core 
My desert breast a little while, and then no more. 
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight o'er 
Some ruin'd pile a little while , and then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more; 

The eai-th was Peri-land awhile, and then no more. 

Oh, might I see but once again, as once before, 

Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no u\ore. 

Death soon would heal my griefs! This heart, now sad and sore, 

Would beat anew a little while , and then no more ! 

False Frances was the first and the last that thrilled 
his "desert breast." He soon became callous to the 
beauties of the world. Life for him had no more 
attractions. With the Latin poet he could sadly but 
sincerely say: ''Nihil amplius volo." Like Edgar 
Allen Poe, he " loved and lost," and like him, too, 
he fell into despair. 

Among his original compositions there is a griiki 
and ghastly poem, entitled ''The Nameless One," 
which is an epitome of the inner-Mangan. It runs 
thus : 

THE NAMELESS ONE. 

Roll on, my song, like the rushing river 

That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 

My soul to thee. 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 285 

Tel] thou the world when my bones are whit'ning 

Amid the last homes of youth and eld, 
That there was once one whose veins ran lightning 

No eye beheld. 

Tell how his manhood was one drear night hour — 

How shone for him 'mid the grief and gloom 
No star of all that Heaven sends to light our 

Path to the tomb. 

Roll on my soul, and to after ages 

Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, 
He would have taught men from Wisdom's pages 

The way to live. 

Tell how the nameless, condemned for years long 

To herd with demons from hell beneath , 
Saw things that made him with groans and teai's long 

For even death. 

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, 

Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, 
With spirits shipwrecked and young hopes blasted, 

He still, still strove. 

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow. 

And want and sickness, and homeless nights, 
He bides in calmness the silent morrow 

That no day lights. 

And lives he still ? Yes, old and hoary 
At forty- nine, from despair and woe, 
He lives, enduring what future story 

Will never know. 



286 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Such is the picture of Mangan's inner life; such, 
alas! was the life of a consummate poet, an ardent 
patriot, a man of splendid talents and liberal acquire- 
ments. In his social relations, unlike the majority 
of literary men, he seldom referred to his trials or 
triumphs. Since the year 1828 to the time of his 
death he had been before the public as a regular con- 
tributor to the besi magazines of the Irish metropo- 
lis; and even when O'Connell shook the senate halls 
of England the influence of Mangan's pen was felt 
and his genius acknowledged. Yet lie seldom had a 
word to say even to friends about his own projects or 
achievements. It is not so with the genus irritahile 
of our times. 

Honest John Mitchel, the poet's faithful friend, 
describes him as a man under the middle height, 
with a finely formed head, clear blue eyes, and 
features of a peculiar mold and delicacy. His coun- 
tenance bore traces of sorrow, and his figure, though 
well shaped, was meagre more from care and ill-usage 
than by nature. Like most men of true genius, he 
was shy, sensitive and sympathetic almost to a fault; 
and though he would enter warmly into conversation 
with intimate friends, he seldom sought society. 

He had no ostensible connection with the "Young 
Ireland Association;" yet there was not a mem- 
ber of that brilliant constellation of Irish genius 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 287 

more active in disseminating the doctrine of physical 
force and resistance to tyrants. He held, perhaps, 
the first rank among the staff of poetical writers 
whose productions gave a high literary standing to 
the Nation almost from the initial number. 

All his poems are pregnant with the fire of that 
patriotism which bade the genius of Davis to vibrate ; 
and as no species of writing has such influence on 
the human heart as poetry, and as few men, accord- 
ing to Mitchel, were better acquainted with the mani- 
fold sounds and exquisite notes of the Irish harp 
than James Clarence Mangan, it may be safely 
asserted that his harmonious songs caused many a 
Celtic heart to pulsate with patriotic emotion, 

From the shelving shore of Antrim 
To the sunny slopes of Beare. 

From the establishment of the United Irishman by 
Mitchel until its suppression in '48, Mangan con- 
tributed regularly to its columns, and his splendid 
translations from Spanish, French and German 
formed a new feature of newspaper literature in Ire- 
land. His translations from the Gaelic were very 
considerable, and selected from the most mournful 
pieces of the Munster Bards. "Patrick Sarsfield" 
and "Dark Rosaleen " lost nothing of their original 
vigor and intensity under his master hand. Nor did 
the " Cathaleen Ni Houlihan " lose any of her warmth 



288 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

and beauty in exchanging her "Bearla fina" for an 
Anglican robe. " Cathaleen Ni Houlihan" was a 
poetical name for Erin. 

Let none believe this lovely Eve outworn and old ; 
Fair is her form, her blood is warm, her heart is bold — 
Though strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not 

fawn. 
Will not prove mean, our Cathaleen Ni Houlihan. 

We will not bear the chains we wear, nor wear them long; 
We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong. 
The God who led through Ocean Red all Israel on 
Will aid our Queen, our Cathaleen Ni Houlihan. 

He has, according to competent authority, by which 
the English version was compared with the original 
manuscript, given us an excellent translation of St. 
Patrick's Hymn before Tara. This Irish MS., which 
Usher believed to be 1260 years old, is still preserved 
in Trinity College, Dublin. In these translations 
from the language of the Brehon Law, it is said 
that, "while retaining all the phraseology of the 
originals, they have lost nothing of their primitive 
energy and beauty." His rendition of German into 
English was equally clever and successful. Most 
literary connoisseurs prefer his translation of 
Schiller's beautiful poem, " The Ideal," to that' of 
Bulwer from the same original. This is Mangan's 
version : 



JAMES CLAEENCE MANGAN. 289 

THE IDEAL. 

Extinguished in the darkness lies the sun 

That lighted up my shrivelled world of wonder; 
Those fairy -bands Imagination spun 

Around my heart have long been reft asunder. 
Gone forever is the fine belief — 

The all too generous trust in the Ideal; 
All my divinities have died of grief, 

And left me wedded to the rude and Real. 

This needs no commentary. 

There is one of his productions which seems to 
bespeak alike the prophet and the poet — his 

IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. 

O Ireland, ancient Ireland — 

Ancient yet forever young — 
You, our mother-home and sireland, 

You, at length have found a tongue. 
The flag of freedom floats unfurled, 

And as the mighty God existeth 

Who giveth victory, when and where he listeth, 
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world» 

For this dull world still slumbers, ', 

Weetless of its wants and loves; ; 

Though, like Galileo, numbers 
Cry aloud: " It moves, it moves!" 



20 



290 ir.iBH roETs and novelists: 

All march, but few decry the goal; 

Oh, Ireland, be it thy high duty 
To teach the world the might of Moral Beauty, 

And stamp God's image on the struggling soul. 

***** 
Go on, then, all rejoiceful, 

Marching on thy career unbowed ; 
Ireland, let thy noble voiceful 

Spirit ciy to God aloud. , 

Man will bid thee speed, 

God will aid thee in thy need. 
The time, the hour, the power are near; 

Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard 

Of that illustrious band whom heaven and man guard. 
And these words come from one whom some have called a seer. 

One specimen more and we shall draw this brief 
and imperfect paper to a close. Such a specimen as 
this will not surely tire any true lover of poetry. It 
is a translation of Rucket's 

DYING FLOWER. 

And woe to me ! fond , foolish one , ' v 

To tempt the all-absorbing ray. 
To think a flower could love a sun 

Nor feel her soul dissolve away; 
But vainly in my bitterness 

I speak the language of despair: 
In life, in death, I still must bless 

The sun, the light, the cradling air. 



JAMES CLAHENCE MANGAN. 2U1 

Mine early love to them I gave; 

An(i now tliat yon bright orb on high 
Illumines but a wider grave, 

For them I breathe my final sigh. 

How often soared my soul aloft, 

In balmy bliss too deep to speak ; 
When zephja-s came and kissed with soft 

SM'eet incense-breath my blushing cheek ! 
When beauteous bees and butterflies 

Flew round me in the summer beam, 
Or when some virgin's glorious eyes 

Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream. 

This is a poem with a moral, aimost perfect in 
rhyme and rhytlim, abounding in alliteration and 
sparkling with beauty of thought and expression. 

Strange to sa}^ that an admiring public should 
neglect a man of Mangan's taste and talent; but such 
neglect is almost the common inheritance of genius. 
Spencer, the "sweet, foreign songster of the Mula," 
ended his days in a public hospital; Tasso could 
seldom get a good suit of clothes; and Dry den, who 
lived a life of penury, died in distress. Like those, 
Mangan was destitute of the comforts of a home, and 
like them he was driven to drinking to excess. Dr. 
Petrie obtained a situation for him in the Library of 
Trinity College, but this succor came too late to stay 
the ravages of want and despair. Nor could all the 
efforts of the learned Father Meehan effect more than 



292 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

to "gently slope" his pathway to a premature grave. 
Even when a mere skeleton he still wrote for the 
newspapers, to procure him the necessaries of life. 

The Rev. C. P. Meehan has left us the best memoir 
of Mangan which has so far been written; The 
reverend author of the " Flight of the Earls " fre- 
quentl}' assisted Mangan while living, and adminis- 
tered to him the last Sacraments when dying. A 
poet himself, a nationalist and a scholar, he was well 
qualified for such a work. 

We wish, however, he had given us a more strik- 
ing picture of the coterie of literary worthies — 
Meagher, Mangan, Mitchel, Duffy and Williams — who 
were wont to meet one evening of each week in his 
own little study, at the rectory on Exchange Street, 
for the discussion of matters, literary and political. 
But, unfortunately, the writer's modesty deterred 
him from bringing out in bold relief a group in 
which he himself was a prominent and important 
figure. 

From 1832 to 1834 Mangan was associated with 
Dr. O'Donovan, O'Keeffe, O'Curry and Dr. Petrie in 
writing and arranging the " Ordinance Survey 
Memoir of Ireland"; and it was during this period 
that he made most of his translations from the Irish 
language. O'Donovan and O'Curry rendered many 
remains of the Irish bards into English prose, and 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 293 

Mangan turned the literal translations into verse 
with a felicity which astonished his literary contem- 
poraries. The distinguished archaeologist, Petrie, 
was at that time editor of the Dublin Penny Journal, 
for which our author wrote almost regularly over the 
pseudonym of "Clarence." After completing his 
engagement on the " Survey " business he became a 
writer in the Dublin University Magazine, and 
through the pages of that brilliant periodical he first 
appeared in the character of translator from Conti- 
nental languages. He had an intimate acquaintance 
with German and Spanish, and needed no outside 
assistance to select the choicest garlands from 
foreign gardens. During his incumbency as Libra- 
rian of Trinity College he published in the University 
Magazine a series of translations under the caption 
of " Liters Orientales." These, of course, were the 
pure emanations of Mangan 's own muse with a savor 
of Orientalism given thereunto. The best known of 
this batch are "The Time of the Barmecides," and 
" Boating Down the Bospliorus." These possess 
much merit and seem to grow in popularity with 
the lapse of time. 

When Thomas Davis was struck down in the 
midst of his labors and the flowering of his intellec- 
tual strength, Charles Gavan Duffy attempted to 
supply his place by inducing Mangan to write more 



294 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

frequently for the Nation. But he could not get him 
to pull in harness for any considerable time at a 
stretch; and although his poetr}'', in many — very 
many — respects, is superior to anything Davis wrote, 
he could not fill the place made vacant by the death 
of tlie latter. 

In the Fall of 1848 he was a patient at St. Vin- 
cent's Hospital, and while there arranged with the 
patriotic publisher, John O'Daly, for the issuing of 
the ''Poets and Poetry of Munster." 

This little work gained at once a wide popularit}^, 
and the profits accruing from large sales relieved 
the pressing wants of the translator and editor. 
But earl}'' in the next year he was to be found in 
the hospital again — this time in the Meath Hospital. 
Finding that the end was approaching, he sent for 
Ins faithful friend, Father Meehan, who watched 
over him day after day. 

As the Poet-Priest entered the sick-room on the 
morning of June 19th, 1849, Mangan said to him: 
" I feel that my hour is near, and I. want to be 
anointed." 

On the evening of the following day he expired 
with the Saviour's name upon his lips, his hands 
crossed upon his breast and his eyes firmly fixed 
upon the symbol of Redemption, which was held up 



JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. 295 

to his waning vision by his true friend and spiritual 
Fatner. 

Such is the outline of Mangan's career. He lived 
forty-six years, and in that short span accomplished 
a great deal. " He might have done more," it is 
true, and he certainly would under different circum- 
stances. We thank liim for all he has done, instead 
of finding fault because he has not done more. 

Many of his original poems and translations have 
found a permanent place in the best standard works 
of English literature, and his name occupies a warm 
corner in the affection of the Irish race, both at 
home and abroad. 

Ireland has raised a monument to his memory in 
Glasnevin; and when the proud ones, who sneered at 
his threadbare coat and shunned him for his poverty, 
shall be remembered only in connection with his 
fame, his songs shall perpetuate untarnished and 
unimpaired the brilliant genius and ardent patriot- 
ism of James Clarence Mangan. 

The following ballad was written under the inspi- 
ration of the *' physical force " doctrines of the 
" Young Irelanders," and it is certainly well calcu- 
lated to rouse an oppressed and plundered people to 
action. Subsequently it became a favorite among the 
members of the Fenian Brotherhood: 



296 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

HIGHWAY FOR FREEDOM. 

** My suffering country shall be freed, 

And shine with tenfold glory!" 
So spake the gallant Winkelreid, 

Renowned in German stoiy. 
" No tyrant, ev'n of kingly grade, 

Shall cross or darken my way ! " 
Out flashed his blade, and so he made 

For Freedom's course a highway ! 

We want a man like this, with power 

To rouse the world by one word; 
We want a chief to meet the hour, 

And march the masses onward. 
But chief or none, through blood and fire, 

My Fatherland, lies thy way! 
The men must fight who dare desire 

For Freedom's course a highway ! 

Alas ! I can but idly gaze 

Around in grief and wonder; 
The People's will alone can raise 

The People's shout of thunder. 
Too long, my friends, you faint for fear, 

In secret crypt and by-way; 
At last be Men! Stand forth, and clear 

For Freedom's course a highway ! 

You intei-sect wood, lea, and lawn. 
With roads for monster wagons, 

Wherein you speed like lightning, drawn 
Ky fieiy iron dragons. 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 297 

So do! Such work is good, no doubt; 

But why not seek some nigh way 
For Mind, as well ? Path also out 

For Freedom's coui"se a highway ! 

Yes ! up ! and let your weapons be 

Sharp steel and self-reliance ! 
Why waste your burning energy 

In void and vain defiance, 
And phrases fierce and fugitive ? 

'Tis deeds, not words, that /weigh — 
Your swords and guns alone can give 

To Freedom's course a highway. 



THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 

(Translated from the Irish.) 



[This ballad, which is of homely cast, was intended as a rebuke to the 
saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence 
from being the possessor of three cows. Its author's name is unknown, but 
its age can be determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part 
of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very popular in Munster 
maybe concluded from the fact that the phrase, "Easy, oh, woman of the 
three cows ! " has become a saying in that Province, on any occasion upon 
which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of a boastful or consequential 
person.] 



O, Woman of Three Cows, agra! don't let your tongue thus 

rattle ! 
O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. 
I have seen — and, here's my hand, to you, I only say what's 

true — 
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. 



298 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their 

despiser, 
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; 
And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty 

human brows. 
Then don't be stiff, and don't he proud, good Woman of Three 

Cows! 

See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More 's descendants: 
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand 

attendants ! 
If theij were forced to bow to Fate, as eveiy mortal bows, 
Can you he proud, can you he stiff", my Woman of Three Cows! 

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to 

mourning; 
Movrone ! for they were banished , with no hope of their 

leturning — 
Who knows in what abodes of want those youtlis weie driven 

to house ? 
Yet you give yourself these airs, O, Woman of Three Cows! 

O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing 

daunted — 
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! 
He sleeps, the great O' Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse — 
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three 

Cows ! 

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined 

in story — 
Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest 

glory— 



JAMES CLAEENCE MANGAN. 299 

Yet now theii- bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress 

boughs, 
And so, for all your pride, will yours, 0, Woman of Three 

Cows! 

Th' 0'Carrolls,also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest. 
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest ; 
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse ? 
Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three 
Cows ! 

Youi' neighbor's poor, and you it seems ai'e big with vain ideas, 
Because, foreooth, you've got three cows, one more, I see, than 

she has. 
That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows, 
But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows! 

THE SUMMING UP. 

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful 

bearing. 
And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing. 
If I had but four cows n\yself , even tho' you were my spouse, 
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three 

Cows! 



300 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

THE FAIH HILLS OF EIRE, O! 

Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, 

And the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
And to all that yet survive of Eibhear's tribe on eaith, 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
In that land so delightful the wild thnish's lay 
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eire's decay — 
Alas ! alas ! why pine I a thousand miles away 

From the fair Hills of Eire, O! 

The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland, 

Of the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
Her barest rock is sfreener to me than this rude land — 

Oh, the fair HilLs of Eire, O! 
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; 
Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above, 
Oh, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love 

The fair HilLs of Eire, O! 

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured, v 
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword — 
Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde 

On the fair Hills of Eire , O ! 

Broad and tall rise the Gruachs in the golden morning's glow 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow 

On the fair Hills of Eire , O ! 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 301 

Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold 
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old; 
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold 
Are the fair Hills of Eire, O! 

The dew-drops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
The water-cress and sorrel till the vales below ; 
The streamlets are hush'd, till the evening breezes blow, 
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow 

Near the fair Hills of Eire, O! 

A fruitful clime is Eire's, through valley, meadow, plain, 

And the fair land of Eire , ! 
The very ' ' Bread of Life " is in the yellow grain 

On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields, 
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields. 
And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields 

Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eire, O! 



SOUL AND COUNTRY. 

Arise! my slumbering soul, arise! 
And learn what yet remains for thee 
To dree or do! 
The signs are flaming in the skies; 
A struggling world would yet be free, 
And live ane\^^ 



302 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The earthquake hath not yet been born, 
That soon shall rock the lands around, 
Beneath their base. 
Imniortal freedom's thunder hoi'n , 
As yet, yields but a doleful sound 
To Europe's race. 

Look round, my soul, and see and say 
If those about thee understand 
Their mission here; 
The will to smite — the power to slay — 
Abound in every heart and hand, 
Afar, anear. 

But, God! must yet the conqueror's sword 
Pierce mind, as heait, in this proud year ? 
Oh, dream it not! 
It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 
Begot and born of moral fear — 
And ill-begot! 

To leave the world a name is nought; 
To leave a name for glorious deeds 
And works of love — 
A name to waken lightning thought,. 
And fire the soul of him who reads, 
This tells above, 
' Napoleon sinks to-day before 

Th' ungilded shrine, the single soul 
Of Washington; 
Truth's name, alone, shall man adore. 
Long as the waves of time shall I'oU 
Henceforward on! 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 303 

My countrymen! my words are weak, 
My health is gone, my soul is dark, 
My heart is chill — 
Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
Too see you borne in freedom's bark 
O'er ocean still. 
Beseech your God, and bide your hour — 
He cannot, will not long be dumb; 
Even now His tread 
Is heard o'er earth with coming power; 
And coming, tmst me, it will come, 
Else were He dead! 

CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND. 

(A vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century.) 

I WALKED entranced 

Through a land of morn ; 
The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 
Shone down and glanced 
Over seas of corn. 
And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 
Even in the clime 

Of resplendent Spain 
Beams no such sun upon such a land; 
But it was the time, 
'T was in the reign 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

Anon stood nigh 

By my side a man 
Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
Him queried I, 



304 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

" Oh, my lord and khan, 
What dime is this, and what golden time?" 
When he — ' ' The clime 
Is a clime to praise, 
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; 
And it is the time, 
These be the days 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand!" 

Then I saw thrones 
And circling fires, 
And a dome rose near me, as by a spell, 
Whence flowed the tones 
Of silver lyres 
And many voices in wreathed swell; 
And their thrilling chime 
Fell on mine ears 
As the heavenly hymn of angel-band — 
" It is now the time. 
These be the years 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand '•' 

1 sought the hall. 

And , behold ! — a change 
From light to darkness, from joy to woei v 
Kings, nobles, all, 

Looked aghast and strange 
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show! 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 305 

Had some great crime 

Wrought this dread amaze, 
This terror ? None seemed to understand. 
'Twas then the time, 
We were in the days 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

I again walked forth; 
Butlo! the sky 
Showed fleekt with blood, and an alien sun 
Glared from the north. 

And there stood on high , 
Amid his shorn beams, a Skeleton! 
It was by the stream 

Of the castled Maine, 
One autumn-eve, in the Teuton's land 
That I dreamed this dream 
Of the time and reign 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red hand! 



LAMENT FOR BANBA. 

Oh, my land! oh, my love! 

What a woe, and how deep 
Is thy death to my long-mourning soul ! 
God alone, God above. 

Can awake thee from sleep — 
Can release thee from bondage and dole ! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba I 

21 



306 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

As a tree in its prime, 

Which the axe layeth low, 
Didst thou fall, O, unfortunate land I 
Not by Time, nor thy eiime, 

Came the shock and the blow. 
They were given by a false felon hand! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba! 
Oh, my grief of all griefs 
Is to see how thy throne 
Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall! 
Other lands have their chiefs, 

Have their kings; thou alone 
Art a wife — yet a widow withal. 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 
The high house of O'Neill 
Is gone down to the dust. 
The O'Brien is clanless and banned; 
And the steel, the red steel. 
May no more be the trust 
Of the faithful and brave in the land! 
Alas, alas, and alas. 

For the once proud people of Banba! 
True, alas! Wrong and wrath 
Were of old all too rife , 
■ Deeds were done which no good man admires; 
And, perchance. Heaven hath 
Cl\astened us for the strife 
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires ! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK. o07 

But, no more! This our doom, 

While our hearts jet are warm. 
Let us not over- weakly deplore I 
For the hour soon may loom 

When the Lord's mighty hand 
Shall be raised for oui- rescue once more ! 

And our grief shall be turned into joy 
For the still proud people of Banba! 

THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES. 

(Translated from the Arabic.) 

My eyes are lilm'd, my beard is gray, 

I am bow'd with the weight of years; 
I would I were stretched in my bed of clay, 

With my long lost youth's compeers ! 
For back to the Past, tho' the thought brings woe, 

My memory ever glides 
To the old, old time long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides 
To the old, old time long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides. 

Then Youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, 

And an iron arm in wai-, 
And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 

When the watch-lights glimmer'd afar; 
And a barb as fiery as any I know 

That Khoord orBeddaween rides, 
Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 
Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 



308 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

One golden goblet illumed my board, 

One silver dish was there; 
At hand my tried Karamanian sword 

Lay always bright and bare. 
For those were the days when the angry blow 

Supplanted the word that chides — 
When hearts could glow — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides; 
When hearts could glow — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

Through city and desert my mates and I 

Were free to rove and roam, 
Our diaper'd canopy the deep of the sky, 

Or the roof of the palace dome — 
Oh! ours was that vivid life, to and fro, 

Which only sloth derides — 
Men spent Life so, long, long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 
Men spent Life so, long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

I see rich Bagdad once again, 

With its turrets of Moorish mould, 
And the Khalif 's twice five hundred men ^ 

Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 
I call up many a gorgeous show 

Which the pall of Oblivion hides — 
All pass'd like snow, long, long ago. 

With the time of the Barmecides; 
All pass'd like snow, long, long ago. 

With the time of the Barmecides ! 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 309 

But mine eye is dim, and my l^eard is gray, 

And I bend with the weight of years — 
May I soon go down to the house of clay 

Where slumber my Youth's compeers! 
For with them and the Past, though the thought wakes woe. 

My memory ever abides; 
And I mourn for the times gone long ago, 

For the times of the Barmecides ! 
I mourn for the times gone long ago, 

For the times of the Barmecides ! 

THE POET'S PREACHING. 

(From the German of Sails Seewis.) 

See how the day beameth brightly before us! 

Blue is the firmament, green is the earth — 
Grief hath no voice in the universe-chorus — 

Nature is ringing with music and mirth. ■ 
Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness — 

Gaze! and if Beauty can capture thy soul, 
Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness — 

Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal. 

Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses — 

List! how she thrills in the nightingale's lay! 
Breathe! she is wafting thee sweets from the roses; 

Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play ; 
Taste ! from the grape and the nectarine gushing 

Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun — 
Green in the hills, in the flower groves blushing, 

Look! she is always and everywhere one. 



310 ' IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling 

Over the cheeks that shoukl rosily bloom; 
Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling. 

Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb ? 
Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty; 

Still hath Philanthropy much to essay: 
Glory rewards the fulfillment of Duty; 

Rest will pavilion the end of our way. 

What, though corroding and multiplied sorrows, 

Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, 
Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows 

Ever when Anguish has palsied its powei's; 
Wherefore, though Fate played the part of a traitor, 

Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope, 
Fearlessly certain that sooner or latei" 

Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. 

Look round about on the face of Creatioii; 

Still is God's Earth undistorted and bright; 
Comfoi't the captives to long tribulation, , 

Thus shalt thou reap tlie niore perfect delight. 
Love! — but if Love be a hallowed emotion, 

Purity only its rapture should share; 
Love, then, with willing and deathless emotion 

All that is just and exalted and fair. 

Act! — for in Action aie Wisdom and Glory. 

Fame, Immortality — these are its crown; 
Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of stoiy, 

Build on achievements thy Dome of Renown. 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAX. 311 

Honor and Feeling were giv'n thee to cherish, 
Cherish them, then, though all else should decay, 

Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 
Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. 

Courage! — Disaster and Peril once over, 

Freshen the spirit as showers the grove, 
O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover 

Soon the Forget-rae-not lises in love. 
Courage, then, friends' Though the universe crumble, 

Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
Patient and trustful and joyous and humble. 

Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and Death. 

TO JOSEPPI BRENNAN. 

BALLAD. 

Friend and brother, and yet more than brother. 
Thou, endow'd with all of Shelley's soul! 

Thou, whose heart so burnetii for thy mother. 

That, like his, it may defy all other 
Flames, while time shall roll! 

Thou, of language bland and manner meekest, 

Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will — 
Gladly, gladly list I when thou speakest, 
Honor'd highly is the man thou seekest 

To redeem from ill ! 

Truly show'st thou me the one thing needful! 

Thou art not, nor is the world yet blind. 
Truly have I been long years unheedful 
Of the thorns and tares that choked the needful 

Garden of my mind ! 



312 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Thorns and tares, which rose in rank profusion 

Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers, 
Till I almost deemed it self-delusion. 
Any attempt or glance at their extrusion 
From their midnight bowei-s. 

Dream find waking life have now been blended 

Long time in the caverns of my soul — 
Oft in daylight have my steps descended 
Down to that dusk realm where all is ended, 
Save remed'less dole ! 

Oft, with tears, I have groan'd to God for pity — 
Oft gone wandering till my wa}- grew dim — 

Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty — 

Oft, all lonely in this throngful city, 
Raised my soul to Him ! 

And from path to path His mere}' track'd me — 

From many a peril snatched He me ; 
When false friendship pureued, betray 'd, attack'd me, 
When ffloom overdark'd and sickness rack'd me, 

He was by to save and free ! 

Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble 

Thoughts and phrases ! I will heed thee well- 
Well will I obey thy mystic double 
Counsel, through all scenes of woe and trouble, 
. As a magic spell ! 

Yes! to live a bard, in thought and feeling! 

Yes ! to act my rhyme , by self-restraint — 
This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing. 
Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling 

And entranced saint ! 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 313 

Fare thee well ! we now know each the other, 
Each has struck the other's inmost chords. 

Fare thee well, my friend and more than brother, 

And may scorn pursue me if I smother 
In my soul thy words ! 

IRELAND UNDER IRISH RULE. 

(From the Irish.) 

I FOUND in Innisfail the fair, 

In Ireland, while in exile there, 

Women of worth, both grave and gay men. 

Many clerics and many laymen. 

I travelled its fruitful provinces round, 
And in every one of the five I found , 
Alike in church and in palace hall, 
Abundant apparel and food for all. 

Gold and silver I found, and money, 
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey, 
I found God's people rich in pity, 
Found many a feast and many a city. 

I also found in Armagh the Splendid , 
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, 
Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, 
And noble councillors untranscended. 



I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, 
In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, 
Great chess-play ere, men of truthful speech. 



314 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

I found in Meath's fair principality, 
Virtue, vigor, and hospitality; 
Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity, 
Ireland's bulwark and security. 

I found strict morals in age and youth, 
I found historians recording truth ; 
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, 
I found them all — I have written sooth. 



O MARIA, REGINA MISERICORDLE ! 

There lived a knight long years ago, 
Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless. 
Of God above, or Hell below. 

He took no thought, but, undisraay'd, 

Pursued his course of wickedness. 
His heart was rock ; he never pray'd 
To be forgiven for all his treasons; 
He only said at certain seasons, 
' ' O Mary , Queen of Mercy I " 

Years roll'd, and found him still the same, 
Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl; 
Yet felt he now and then some shame ; 
The torment of the Undying Worm 

At whiles woke in his trembling soul; 
And then, though powerless to reform, 

Would he, in hope to appease that sternest 
Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 315 

At last Youth's riotous time was gone, 
And loathing now came after sin; 
With locks yet brown he felt as one 
Grown gray at heart; and oft with tears 

He tried, but all in vain, to win 
From the dark desert of his years 

One flower of hope; yet, morn and e'ening, 
He still cried, but with deeper meaning, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

A happier mind, a holier mood, 

A purer spirit, ruled him now; 
No more in thrall to flesh and blood, 
He took a pilgrim-statf in hand. 

And, under a religious vow, 
Travel'd his way to Pommerland. 
There enter'd he an humble cloister. 
Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares 

Aside, and wrought for God alone; 
Albeit he sang no choral prayers. 

Nor Matin hymn nor Laud could leai'n, 

He mortified his flesh to stone. 
For him no penance was too stern; 
And often pray'd he on his lonely 
Cell-couch at night, but still said only, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 



316 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And thus he Hved long, long; and, when 

God's angels called him, thus he died. 
Confession made he none to men, 

Yet, when they anointed him with oil 

He seem'd already glorified ; 
His penances, his tears, his toil 

Were past, and now, with passionate sighing, 
Praise thus broke from his lips while dying, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

They buried him with Mass and song 

Aneath a little knoll so green; 
But, lo! a wonder sight! Ere long 

'Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound. 

The fairest lily ever seen; 
And, on its petal-edges round, 

Relieving their translucent whiteness, 
Did shine these words in gold-hued brightness: 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

And, would God's angels give thee power. 

Thou, dearest reader, might behold 
The fairness of this holy flower, 

Up-springing from the dead man's heart 
In tremulous threads of light and gold ; 
Then wouldst thou choose tlie better part ! 
And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions; 
Thy sole response to mocking questions, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 




REV. FATHER RYAN 

THE POET-PRIEST OF THE SOUTH. 

sHE first collection of Father Ryan's Poems, 
made under his own supervision, contains a 
preface, in which the author says: 

' ' These verses (which some friends call by the higher title of 
Poems — to which appellation the author objects) were written 
at random — off and on, here, there, everywhere — just when the 
mood came, with little of study and less of art, and always in a 
hurry. 

"Hence they are incomplete in finish as the author is; though 
he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more about 
the humble steps that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries 
than of the steps that lead up to Parnassus and the home of the 
Muses. And souls were always more to him than songs. " 

This Southern Celt was as modest in his estima- 
tion of self as he was truly gifted. Though he knew 
right well and loved the " steps that led up to the 
Altar," and served the Altar faithfully, the ascent to 
Parnassus was to him no difficult task. Yet would 
he sign himself the least of all the bards. It would 
seem that in a note to Longfellow he made use of 
language somewhat similar, as we find reference 

(817) 



oia 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



made to it in the following extract of a letter written 
to Father Ryan by the Cambridge Poet: 




^^y^^cz^^ ^^^^J?--^^, 



" Cambridge, Dec. 14, 1880. 

<' * * * J have read enough of your poetiy to see the 
fervor of feeling and expression with which you write, and the 
melody of the veisification. 

"Of course, you will hardly expect me to sympathize with 
all the ' veraes connected witn the war.' Yet, in some of 
them, I recognize a profound pathos and the infinite pity of it 
all. * * * 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 319 

" P. S. — When you call yourself ' the last and least of those 
who rhyme,' you remind me of the graceful lines of Catullus to 
Cicero: 

" ' Gratias tibi maximas Catullus 
Agit, pessimus omnium poeta: 
Tanto pessimus omnium poeta, 
Quanto tu optimus omnium patronus.'* 

" * Last and least ' can no more be applied to you than ' pes- 
simus ' to Catullus. " 

In this comparison a high compliment is paid to 
the Poet-Priest; and coming from such a distin- 
guished personage as Longfellow it was certainly 
appreciated. 

Late in the Fall of 1880 Father Ryan gave read- 
ings from his own poems in the Academy of Music, 
Baltimore, Md. The proceeds of these public read- 
ings were destined to found a R^^an Medal in the 
Loyola College of that city, and Rev. E. A. McGurk, 
S. J., presided on the occasion. The audience was 
made up of the most fashionable and cultured citi- 
zens of Mar^dand, who were anxious to hear the 
Poet of their " Lost Cause," and to pay to him the 
homage of their appreciation. 

Before reading "A Land Without Ruins," which 
formed one of his selections on that evening, he pre- 



* Catullus sends his thanks to thee, 
With most sincere regards — 
Thou greatest of all Patrons, as he 
Is lectst of all the hards. 



820 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

faced it with a few words. The lines were applicable 
to Ireland, Poland and the South: 

" A land without ruins is a land without memories; a land 
without memories is a land without a history. A land that 
wears a laurel crown may be fair to see ; but twine a few sad 
cypress leaves around the brow of any land, and, be that land 
barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely in its consecrated 
coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart and 
of history. Crowns of roses fade; crowns of thorns endure. 
Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity; the 
triumphs of might are transient; they pass and are forgotten; 
the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of 
nations. " 

A touching incident, in which originated the 
poem entitled ''A Death," was thus related by him 
during the course of his readings: 

" Some years ago the small-pox came to Mobile and raged as 
an epidemic. A great many people died. I attended many. 
I was sent for one evening late, by an outcast of the city, the 
leader of the unfortunate class to which she belonged. Noted 
for her beauty, she had fallen away, drifted away from the 
paths of virtue, lured by the wiles of others.. I attended her 
for thirteen days, and until she died a beautiful death. The 
very words I use in the poem or rhyme I am about to read are 
the words she used to me." 

Father Ryan here read his charming lines " A 
Death." The words to which he alluded are thus 
expressed in his verses: 



EEV. FATHEE RYAN. • 321 

I have wandered too far, far away, 
Oh! would that my mother were here; 
Is God like a mother? Has he 
Any love for a sinner like me ? 

The recitation deeply affected the audience. As 
an introduction to the beautiful poem which came 
next in order the gifted poet said: 

' ' There came a time when the yellow fever swept the South ; 
the politicians were at that time wrangling. The sympathy of 
the North came down with sandals of mercy on her feet to the 
poor fever-stricken South, and met her in the sanctuary of her 
deepest woe. The hands of the North and South were thus 
clasped once more." 

Under these circumstances it was that Father Ryan 
wrote " Reunited," which he then read with fine 
effect. So genuinely hearty was the reception given 
Father Ryan on this occasion by the best families of 
the South that the writer, who had the privilege of 
being one of the audience could not help consider- 
ing, contrary to the dictum of scripture, that this 
man was a " prophet in his own country." 

The South maj'' be called "his own country," as he 
resided there from the cradle to the grave. 

Father Ryan was born in Limerick, Ireland, in 
April, 1840, and baptized in the old church where 
the Florentine Campanaro discovered hk lost bells, 
as he sailed up the Shannon on a fine summer 

22 



S22 ' IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

evening long ago. While Abram was yet a child his 
parents came to the United States and settled at 
Norfolk, Virginia. By industry and tact they sur- 
rounded their new home with all the ordinary com- 
forts of life, and devoted not a little of their atten- 
tion to the education of the future poet and his two 
brothers. For more than two centuries the family 
to which Mr. Ryan belonged had given scholarly and 
zealous priests to the Irish Church, and his ambition, 
wliich harmonized with the fondest wish of his pious 
wife, was to devote one of his sons, at least, to the 
service of the grand old Church in his adopted land. 
With this end in view, after having completed his 
primary studies at home, Abram was sent to St. 
Vincent's College, Cape Girardeau, Mo., and placed 
under the watchful care of the Vincentian Fathers, 
by whom he was educated and prepared for the 
sacred ministry. In college he gave promise of a 
brilliant future, and his Rev. Professors spared no 
labor in drawing out and cultivating the talents he 
possessed. It is a doctrine, practiced^ everywhere 
among the members of this noble Order, never to 
use two words where one suffices, nor yet a long 
word where a short one can be made to answer the 
purpose. Hence their style is remarkably expres- 
sive, terse and energetic. Young Ryan, given to 
literaiy composition at an early age, very naturally 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 323 

adopted this principle of his devoted teachers, and, 
as a consequence, his stj^e is direct, precise and 
without redundanc}^ 

i^fter his ordination, the Rev. A. J. Ryan was 
appointed to missionary duty at Knoxville, Tenn., 
where he endeared himself to all classes of society, 
but especially to the poor. 

During the first year of the Civil War his brother 
David, who was then attending college, joined the 
Confederate ranks. He possessed a large share of 
the priest's poetic genius, and his sjanpathy with the 
South was equally ardent and strong. 

This brother, who in a short time rose to the 
command of a company, was killed in one of the 
early engagements. The event is commemorated in 
the following tender, tearful lines: 



IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 

Young as the youngest who donned the gray, 

True as the truest that wore it, 
Brave as the bravest he marched away 
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay), 
Triumphant waved our flag one day — 
He fell in the front before it. 



324 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Firm as the firmest where duty led, 

He hurried without a falter; 
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, 
And the day was won — but the field was red — 
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed 

On his country's hallowed altar. 

On the trampled breast of the battle plain, 

Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, 

On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain 

(His mother dreams they will meet again) , 

The fairest form amid all the slain, 
Like a child asleep he nestled. 

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept 

The field where his comrades found him, 

They buried him there — and the big tears crept 

Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. 

(His mother-— God pity her! — smiled and slept. 
Dreaming her arms were around him). 

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, 

A grave in the heart of his mother — 
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ; 
There is not a name , there is not a stone , 
And only the voice of the wind maketh moan 
O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn. 
But — his memory lives in the other. 

The Mobile Register published this eulogium of 
the deceased poet: 

' ' No man of genius ever shrank with greater dread from the 
glare of renown. From his early manhood he has worn the 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 325 

vestments of a priest, and in the solemn pureuits of his office 
he has spent the power of his life, and through many years of 
feebleness and pain — 

To the higher shrine of love divine 

His lowly feet have trod; 
He wants no fame, no other name 

Than this — a priest of God. 

" But his fame is not his own, it is his country's; and his 
name filLs a page in her history to be cherished by her people for 
ever. 

' ' When the camp-fires of the war between the States began 
to cast their lurid glare upon the passions of a people for the 
fii"st time they profoundly stirred Abram J. Ryan, then a frail 
and slender youth, who had just entered the priesthood of the 
Catholic Church. His brother. Captain David Ryan, was 
among the first to enter the Army of the Confederates, a hope- 
ful young soldier; and in a little while the young priest was 
found among the Southern host to administer where he could 
the consolations of religion to the wounded and dying. 

' ' From the stirring scenes of sacrifice and slaughter which a 
civil war can alone unfold Father Ryan received his first pro- 
found impressions. The cradle of his poetic genius was rocked 
upon the stormy waves of revolution. " 

Then it was that the sweet, strong voice of the 
Poet-Priest was heard throughout the land, cheering 
on the serried hosts and inspiring the champions of 
a cause in which he sincerely believed to deeds of 
greater valor. 

What could be more war-inspiring than these lines 
from the " Sword of Loe ! " 



326 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Out of its scabbard — never hand 

Waved sword from stain as free, 
Nor purer sword led braver band , 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 

Nor cause a chief like Lee. 

" The Conquered Banner," which is included in 
the selections we have made from the poems of our 
author, has taken its place among the greatest 
lyrics of our language, and there it will remain as 
long as English is spoken. 

" Their Story Runneth Thus," by far his longest 
poem, is not without defects, but it has many fine 
qualities which should have won for it a wider 
recognition than it has ever received. His descrip- 
tion of a nun in this plaintive poem is poetically 
beautiful : 

As silent as a star-gleam came a nun, 
In answer to his summons at the gate; 
Her face was like the picture of a saint, 
Or like an angel's smile — her down-cast eyes 
Were like a half -closed tabernacle, where 
God's presence glowed; her lips were- pale and worn 
By ceaseless prayer; and when she spoke 
And bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone 
• As only voices own which day and night 
Sing hymns to God. 

In answer to the question " Who sent you here, 
my child?" put by the Superioress of the convent 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 827 

where Ethel sought admission, the young postulant 
is made to say: 

" A youthful Christ," she said, — 
" Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, 
Would have been His beloved Disciple, sure, — 
Would have been His own gentle John; and would 
Have leaned, on Thursday night, upon his breast. 
And stood, on Friday eve, beneath His cross 
To take His mother from Him when He died. 
He sent me here, — he said the word last night 
In my own garden, — this the word he said — 
Oh; had you heard him whisper: — ' Ethel, dear! 
Your heart was born with veil of virgin on — 
1 hear it rustle every time we meet. 
In all your words and smiles; — and when you weep 
I hear it rustle more. Go — wear your veil — 
And outward be what inwardly thou art, 
And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: 
My heart was born with priestly vestments on. 
And at Dream- Altars I have ofttimes stood, 
And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep — 
And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host, 
A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt. 
Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel, say — 
Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart. 
Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. 
My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night 
To climb our Calvary and to meet in God — 
And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane.' " 



328 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Unlike most poets, Father Ryan loved the Cross 
better than the Crown, and his sympathies were 
always with the weak and the oppressed. After the 
war he moved to Mobile, where he enjoyed the con- 
stant friendship of the Right Rev. Bishop Quinlan, 
who admired both the talents of the poet and the 
zeal of the priest. 

In 1880, or thereabout, he was induced by a bril- 
liant young lawyer of Mobile named Harris Taylor 
to collect and publish his poems in book form. This 
was done at Mr. Taylor's expense, and the book 
proved popular immediately on issuing from the 
press. So great a favorite did it become that in five 
years ten different editions were struck off to supply 
the public demand. 

At this time he went on his lecturing tour through 
the North, where he was received with remarkable 
cordiality, and thousands thronged to hear him. 
Every one was anxious, then, to listen to his brilliant 
lectures and " touch the hem" of the poet's garment. 

Father Ryan led a busy and laborious life, and the 
constant strain began to tell upon his health before 
he had reached his forty-fifth year. 

One month before his death he went to the Monas- 
tery of St. Boniface, Louisville, Kentucky, with the 
intention of making his annual retreat, after which 
he proposed to finish in the retirement of that place 
his " Life of Christ." 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 329 

But his work was done, and the Master called him 
home on the 22d of April, 1880, before he had reached 
the age of fifty. His body lay in state at the 
Franciscan Monastery for two days. On the 24th 
the ex-Confederate soldiers of the city attended in a 
body his Requiem Mass in the Church of St. Boni- 
face, and a funeral escort, consisting of distinguished 
ex-Confederate officers. Judges of the United States 
and State Courts, conducted his remains to the 
depot, whence they were conveyed to Mobile for in- 
terment. In the sad funeral procession a floral 
Cross and Crown were borne, bearing the inscrip- 
tion: 

" Love and sympathy of the ox-confederate soldiers of Louis- 
ville." 

Never was poet more loved and honored in any 
country than this sweet singer in his own Sunny 
Southland. 

He was forty-six years at the time of his death, 
and had lived nearly all his years " south of Mason 
and Dixon's line." As a poet all concede to him an 
exalted place. Miss Early, in her "Songs of the 
South," has this to say: 

' ' In my estimation the two finest songs called forth by the 
war were " The Conquered Banner" and " All Quiet Along the 
Potomac To-night," the former by Father Ryan and the latter 
by Lamar Fontaine. Both these evince genuine talent." 



330 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

As an orator his reputation is also an enviable one. 
General Gordon, in a speech delivered at New 
Orleans on the occasion of unveiling Sergeant Jas- 
per's monument, styled Father Ryan "the rainbow 
of poesy and the thunderbolt of oratory." 

Whatever he may have been before, since the close 
of the civil war the poet of the " Lost Cause" has been 
socially, nearly at all times, a sad and silent man. 
He seldom gave expression to his sorrows, except in 
verse, and lived as much as possible alone. No 
doubt he thought and felt much more than pen or 
voice ever made manifest. Gentleness characterized 
his every act, and he was exceedingly fond of chil- 
dren. 

The end has crowned his labors; but his memory 
shall be as lasting as that of the cause which he 
immortalized in song. 

THE CONQUERED BANNER. 

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
'Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 

Furl it, hide it — let it rest! 



REV. FATHEE RYAN. 331 

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; 
Broken is its staff and shattered; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave; 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner — it is trailing! 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! 
But, oh! wildly they deplore it, 
Now, who fold and furl it so. 



332 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis goiy, 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
And 'twill live in song and story, 

Though its folds are in the dust; 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages — 
Shall go sounding down the ages. 

Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never, 
Let it droop there, furled forever. 

For its people's hopes are dead ! 



LINES— 1875. 

"Why does your poetry sound like a sigh." — Letter to Father Ryan. 

Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore , 

And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
The Poet's have asked them a thousand times o'er,. 
But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, 
And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh evermore. 

Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; 

But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why ! 

" Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 

The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 333 

Go stand on the beach of the bkie , boundless deep, 

When the night stars are gleaming on high, 
And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, 
On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. 
They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. 

Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 

They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why? 

" Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 

The waves will not answer you ; neither shall I. 

Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, 

When it passes and murmurs ' ' good-bye" — 
The dear little breeze, how it wishes to stay 
Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play! 
How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way! 

Ask it what ails it: it will not reply; 

Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. 

" Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 

The breeze will not answer you ; neither shall I. 

Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, 

When the shout of the storm rends the sky; 
They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air 
And they blight Math their breath all the lovely and fair, 
And they groan like the ghosts in the " land of despair." 

Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 

Their voices are mournful, and they will not tell why. 

' ' Why does your poetiy sound like a sigh ?" 

The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I. 



334 HUSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, 

Or list where the rivers rush by; 
The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, 
And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide, 
Are moaning forever wherever they glide; 

Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; 

On — sad voiced — they flow, but they never tell why. 

" Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?" 

Earth's streams will not answer you ; neither shall I. 

Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, 

And the voices that sound in the sky ; 
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, 
And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. 

Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. 

They sigh — sigh forever — but never tell why. 

' ' Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 

Their lips will not answer you ; neither will I. 

ERIN'S FLAG. 

i 
Unroll Erin's flag ! fling its folds to the breeze ! 

Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seasj 

Lift it out of the dust — let it wave as of yore, 

When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore 

That never! no, never! while God gave them life, 

And they had an arm and a sword for the strife. 

That never! no, never! that banner should yield 

As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield; 

While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, 

And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. 



KEY. FATHER RYAN. 335 

Lift it up ' wave it high ' 't is as bright as of old 1 

Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, 

Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years 

Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with teai-s! 

Though the clouds of oppression enshrined it in gloom, 

And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. 

Look aloft! look aloft! Lo, the clouds drifting oy; 

There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky; 

'Tis the Sunburst resplendent — far, flashing on high! 

Erin's dark night is waning, her day -dawn is nigh! 

Lift it up ! lift it up ! the old Banner of Green ! 
The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen. 
What though the tyrant has trampled it down. 
Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown ? 
What though for ages it droops in the dust. 
Shall it droop thus forever ! No ! no ! God is just ! 

Take it up ! take it up ! from the tyrant's foul tread , 
Let him tear the Green Flag — we will snatch its last shred, 
And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, 
And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, 
And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, 
And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread, 
And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, 
Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread, 
And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, 
And we'll swear by the bones in each cotfinless bed. 
That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; 
That we'll cling to the cause which we gloiy to wed. 
Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead 
Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said — 
That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red! 



336 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Lift up the Green Flas' oh' it wants to go home, 
Full long has its lot been to wander and roam. 
It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, 
But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled. 
Like a weary- winged bird, to the East and the West, 
It has flitted and flitted ; but it never shall rest , 
Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main. 
And speeds to the shores of its old home again. 
Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain 
Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane ! 

Take it up ! take it up ! bear it back from afar ! 
That Banner must blaze 'mid the liefhtninjrs of war. 
Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, 
And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die. 
And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth 
To join in the march to the land of their birth. 
And wherever the exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome. 
Have been fated to sufler, to sorrow and roam. 
They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam. 
They'll sail to the music of " Home, Sweet Home!" 



SQNG OF THE MYSTIC. ^ 

I WALK down the Valley of Silence — 
Down the dim , voiceless valley — alone ! 

And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
Around me, save God's and my own; 

And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where ancrels have flown ! 



REV. FATHER RYAN. 

Long ago was I weary of voices, 

Whose music ray heart could not win; 

Long ago was I weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din; 

Long ago was I weaiy of places 

Where I met but the human— and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly; 

I craved what the world never gave; 
And I said: " In the world each Ideal 

That shines like a star on hfe's wave, 
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 

And sleeps Hke a dream in a grave." 

And still I did pine for the Perfect, 

And still found the False with the True; 

I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: 

And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, 
And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; 

Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar 
And I heard a voice call me;— since then. 

I walk down the Valley of Silence 
That lies far beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the Valley ? 

'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And above me a voice said: " Be mine." 

And there arose from the depths of my spirit 

An echo— " My heart shall be thine." 

23 



337 



838 iKisH roETS and novelists: 

Do 3'ou ask how I live in the Valley ? 

I weep — and I dream — and I pray. 
But my teare are as sweet as the dewdrops 

That fall on the roses of May; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 

Aseendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing; 

And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
Till each finds a word for a wing, 

That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
A message of Peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach ; 

And 1 have heard songs in the silence, 
That never shall float into speech; 

And I have heard dreams in the Valley, 
Too lofty for language to i-each. 

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley^ 
Ah ! me , how my spirit was stirred ! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; 

They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word ! 

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care ? 

It lieth afar between mountains. 
And God and His angels are there; 

And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
And one the bright mountain of Prayer! 



THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 

POET, HISTORIAN AND STATESMAN. 

|El[|gHE subject of this paper was descended from 
^1^ a family remarkable for devotion to the 
cause of oppressed Ireland. His maternal grand- 
father took an active part in the rising of 1798, and 
suffered for his participation in that movement. On 
the father's side, also, there were patriots whose 
devotion to the old land was tested and found true. 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee, the second son of James 
McGee and Dorcas Catherine Morgan, was born on 
the 13th day of April, 1825, at Carlingford, in the 
County Louth. His mother was a woman of educa- 
tion and refinement, an enthusiastic lover of her 
country, its music and its ancient lore. The lullaby 
she chanted over his cradle thrilled with the spirit 
of '^ ninety-eight," and Thomas, from his infancy, 
breathed an atmosphere of patriotism. 

Eight listless years had passed over the . future 
poet's head, by the shores of Carlingford Bay, when 
his father, James McGee, there serving as a coast- 
guard, was transferred to Wexford, whither the 
family accompanied him. Here the cultured mother 
instilled into the youthful mind of the bard those 

(339) 



340 



IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



legends and traditions which years and years after- 
wards formed the ground-work for many a thrilling 
ballad. 

That gentle, loving mother died while Thomas was 




yet a boy, and the darling of her heart wept over her 
grave, 

Near the Selskar's ruin'd wall, 

as only poets can weep. Though dead, her lessons 
lived in his heart to prompt and guide him through 
all the changes of a busy and eventful life. 



THOMAS d'ARCY M'GEE. 341 

Years went on, and young McGee was busy with 
the cultivation of a great mind. He attended a day 
school in the town of Wexford, where his progress 
was so rapid that after a few years he became his 
own master. At the age of sixteen he had read a 
great many books on the history of his native land. 
Poetry was his chief delight, and, like Collins, he 
was willing to walk many a weary mile, provided 
the hope of procuring some old volume of legendary 
lays at the end of the journey was held out to him. 

In 1842, when he was only seventeen years of age, 
he resolved to seek fame and fortune on the shores 
of the New World, where 

There is honor for the men of worth 
And wealth for those who toil. 

The parting from the land that contained the ashes 

of his forefathers and the green grave of his idolized 

mother was to him a source of keen, heart-rending 

sorrow. Thus he pours forth his agonizing wail as 

Ireland receded from his sight, and the good ship 

Leo disappeared in the dim horison. 

Tell me truly, pensive sage, 
Seest thou signs on any page ? 
Kiiow'st a volume yet to ope, 
Where I may I'ead of hope — of hope ? 

Dare I seek it where the wave 
Grieves above Leander's grave ? 
Must I follow forth ray quest 
In the wider, freer West ? 



342 ^ IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

He did "folloAV forth his quest" in the great and 
beauteous West where he won fame and fortune. 

He was not long in Boston when the rejoicing of 
the multitude ushered in the ever " glorious 4th of 
July." The youthful immigrant delivered a speech 
on the great National anniversary that astonished 
everyone and secured for himself a position from Mr. 
Patrick Donohue on the Boston Pilot. 

This boy from the banks of the Slaney soon gained 
the editorial management of the Pilot, and in this 
capacity did good service for his religion and race. 
His mighty genius developed rapidly, and in three 
years he was offered the editorial chair in the office 
of the Dublin Freeman's Journal. He returned to 
his native land a man of mark at the age of twenty 
and assumed the chief place in the office of that 
enterprising journal. The Freeman's views were 
entirely too tame for one who was accustomed to 
speak his mind in no uncertain or faltering tones. 
He would not be permitted to change its character, 
so he decided to change his place, and. went over to 
the office of the Natio7i, where he worked with 
Duffy, Davis, Mitchel and Devin Reilly for the 
propagation of " Young Ireland " doctrines. There 
was not in any metropolis of Europe at that time a 
paper so ably edited or one tliat could boast of such 
a galaxy of genius as the Dublin Nation. Mitchel, 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 843 

McGee, Duffy, Davis and Devin Reilly were men of 
great minds, and in their hands the pen was truly 
'' a mighty instrument." That brilliant band of 
agitators, editors, orators and poets has never since 
been equalled in Ireland 

When shall Erin see their like again? She sadly 
needs such men to-day 

O'Connell, the great Liberator, died in 1847. An 
attempt at Rebellion was made in 1848. The after 
tale is easily told. In that short and abortive strug- 
gle Thomas D'Arcy McGee did faithfully and well 
all that was assigned to him. While addressing his 
countrymen in Wicklow he was arrested and lodged 
in prison. After obtaining his liberty, he went over 
to Scotland pursuant to the orders of the " Irish 
Executive," with the intention of securing the 
co-operation of the Irish operatives in the contem- 
plated rising. While thus engaged m Scotland the 
chiefs of the Confederation were arrested at home. 
McGee managed to return to Derry where he was 
sheltered by the learned Catholic Bishop of the 
North, Dr. Maginn. After an interview with his 
young wife, he made his way to Galway whence he 
sailed a second time for the United States, the Land 
of Freedom, dressed in the garb of a clergyman. It 
was while being borne away from the shores of 
Hibernia that he penned the following ballad, 
entitled: 



3M IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

PARTING FROM IRELAND. 

Oh, dread Lord of heaven and earth! 

Hard and sad it is to sro 
From the land I loved and cherished 

Into outward gloom and woe. 
Was it for this, Guardian angel! 

When to manly years I came, 
Homeward as a light you led me — 

Light that now is turu'd to flame ? 

I am as a shipwreck'd sailor, 

By one wave flung on shore, 
By the next torn struggling seaward 

Without hope forevermore. 
I am as a sinner toiling 

Onward to Redemption's Hill — 
By the rising sands environ 'd. 

By siroccos baflied still. 

How I loved this nation ye know , 

Gentle friends, who share my fate, 
And you, too, heroic comrades. 

Loaded with the fetter's weight. 
How I coveted all knowledge 

That might raise her name with men, 
How I sought her secret beauties 

With an all-insatiate ken. 

God ! it is a maddening prospect 

To see this storied land, 
Like some wretched culprit writhing 

In a strong avenger's hand, — 



THOMAS d'ARCY M'GEE, 3*5 

Kneeling, foaming, weeping, shrieking, 

Woman-weak and woman-loud , — 
Better, better. Mother Ireland, 

We had laid you in a shroud ! 

If an end were made, and nobly, 

Of this old, centennial feud — 
If, in arms, outnumbered, beaten, 

Less, O Ireland! had I rued; 
For the scattered sparks of valor 

Might relight thy darkness yet. 
And thy long chain of Resistance 

To the Future had been set. 

Now their Castle sits securely 

On the old accursed hill, 
And their motley pirate standard 

Taints the air of Ireland still; 
And their titled paupers clothe them 

With the labor of our hands. 
And their Saxon greed is glutted 

From our plunder'd fathers' lands. 

But our faith is all unshaken, 

Though our present hope is gone •, 
England's lease is not forever — 

Ireland's welfare is not done. 
God in Heaven, He is immortal — 

Justice is His sword and sign — 
If this world is not our ally. 

We have One who is Divine. 



346 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS" 

Though my eyes no more may see thee, 

Island of my early love ! 
Other eyes shall see the Green Flag 

Flying the tall hills above; 
Though my ears no more may listen 

To the rivers as they flow, 
Other eare shall hear a psean 

Closing thy long caoine of woe. 

These energetic verses faithfully mirrored the 
mind of the defeated patriot as he turned a second 
time from his native land, leaving nothing but shat- 
tered hopes and disaster behind him 

On the 10th of October, 1848, lie reached Phila- 
delphia, and fifteen days later he issued the first copy 
of the New York Nation, which was not destined to 
equal the career of its Dublin namesake. The paper 
was well received, and for a time promised to bring 
wealth and additional fame to its proprietor and 
editor. The Young Irelander was a radical, smart- 
ing keenly under the sting of an ignominious defeat, 
and undertook in the columns of the Nation to 
attribute the failure of the 'Forty-eight rising to the 
interposition of the bishops and priests. He strenu- 
ously . maintained that the priests used all their 
mighty influence in preventing the young men of 
Ireland from joining the insurgents. Archbishop 
Hughes came quickly to the defence of the Irish 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 347 

priesthood, and in a series of letters ably refuted the 
assertions of the young refugee 

It could not be expected that Mr. McGee could 
hold his own against Archbishop Hughes, the victor 
of a dozen controversial fields. As a result the New 
York Nation went under; and at the solicitation of 
numerous friends the editor removed with his family 
to the city of Boston, in 1850, where he commenced 
the publication of the American Gelt. A year later 
he removed the publication to New York City, and 
continued it there till its suspension in 1858. In 
January, 1855, McGee again visited Ireland, the 
political disabilities under which he labored having 
lapsed. He wrote a series of able papers for the 
Celt, entitled " Ireland Re-visited," which were the 
beginning of the movement for colonization that 
developed later on. 

It is said that the radical revolutionist of twenty 
summers becomes a stern conservative at forty. So 
it was with McGee, and the change in his principles 
evoked severe criticism from the ranks of the Phj'^si- 
cal Force party. In a letter to Thomas Francis 
Meagher, the brilliant orator and patriot, he sets 
forth his reasons for altering his opinions. Among 
other reasons he assigns the following: 

" Having discovered, by close self-examination, that the read- 
ing chiefly of modern books, English and French, gave very 
superficial and false views of political science, I cheerfully said 



348 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

to myself, ' My friend, you are on the wrong track. You think 
you know something of human affairs; but you do not. You 
are ignorant — veiy ignorant — of the primary principles that 
govern and must govern the world. You can put sentences 
together; but what does that avail you when, perhaps, these 
sentences are but the husks and pods of poisonous seeds? 
Beware ! look to it ! you have a soul ! What will all the fame 
of talents avail you if you lose that ? ' Thus I reasoned with 
myself, and then setting my cherished opinions before me, one 
by one, I tried, judged and capitally executed every one save 
and except those which I found to be compatible with the fol- 
lowing doctrines; 

' ' 1st. That there is a Christendom. 

' ' 2d. That this Christendom exists by and for the Catholic 
Church. 

"3d. That there is in our age one of the most dangerous 
and general conspiracies against Christendom that the world 
has yet seen. 

"4th. That this conspiracy is aided, abetted and tolerated 
by many because of its stolen watchword — Liberty. 

' ' 5th. That it is the highest duty of a Catholic man to go 
over cheerfully, heartily and at once to the side of Christendom 
— to the Catholic side — and to resist, with all his might, the 
conspiratoi-s who, under the stolen name of ' Liberty,' make war 
upon all Christian institutions." 

These are a few of the cogent reasons given by Mr. 
McGee for changing his political doctrines. It must 
be acknowledged that his discoveries were based on 
solid truths, and the wonder is that they were not 
made sooner. The watchwords of conspirators — 



THOMAS D'aBCY M'GEE. 349 

Liberty, Equality and Fraternity — are filched from 
Catholic writers, stolen from Catholic Christianity, 
and used with telling effect by popular demagogues 
and impious opponents of Christian teachings. 

McGee was not only a brilliant orator, but also a 
deep thinker and a writer of inimitable force and 
unequalled skill. His lectures on '' The Catholic 
History of America " are the best ever written on 
the subject. " Irish Settlers in North America " 
contains an important part of the annals from which 
the future historian of the Irish race in North 
America will be obliged to draw. 

In 1862, he published his " History of Ireland " 
in two 12mo volumes; and,' although this work is 
not what the history of Ireland should be, it is 
undoubtedly one of the best we have. '' The Refor- 
mation in Ireland," from his ever busy and gifted 
pen, is a marvel of learning, logic and research, 
which proves at the same time that he was a true 
lover of his native land and the faith of his fathers. 
"O'Connell and his Friends," "The Jesuits" and 
'' Irish Writers " are works that bear the impress of 
his powerful mind. To Mr. McGee must be given 
the credit of originating the " Catholic Colonization " 
idea. 

He, it was, who conceived the idea, and formulated 
the plan of locating the immigrants from Ireland on 



350 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

the broad, fertile prairies of the great West. It was a 
project worthy of the man, and one which, if effectu- 
ated, would have proved exceedingly beneficial to the 
whole Irish race in the United States. While advo- 
cating this colonizing scheme in the columns of the 
Celt, he summoned the Buffalo Convention for the 
purpose of furthering the movement. This Conven- 
tion was composed of one hundred Irish Americans. 
The resolutions and suggestions of the Convention 
met with considerable opposition in different quar- 
ters, and were lost sight of until D'Arcy McGee had 
been gathered to the grave. 

Removing to Canada, he commenced in Montreal 
the publication of the Nev) Era. On the second 
year of his residence in the Province his friends and 
countrymen elected him to the Canadian Parliament, 
and thenceforth his public career was both brilliant 
and successful, even to that fatal moment when the 
assassin's hand struck down the noble exile at the 
very threshold of his lodgings. 

This lamentable event took place on ^the 7th day 
of April, 1868, in the city of Ottawa, and threw all 
the land into mourning for the illustrious dead. In 
him Ireland lost a champion of her rights, the 
Catholic Church a devoted son, and Canada her best 
and most brilliant statesman. 

The Requiem for his eternal repose was chanted in 



THOMAS D'AIICY M'GEE. 351 

the Cathedral of Ottawa. He lies buried in Mount 
Royal, near Montreal, on a sunny slope which faces 
the St. Lawrence. '' Here," writes a distinguished 
lawyer of Montreal, " sleeps the greatest poet, orator, 
statesman, historian — the best, the truest friend, 
counsellor and guide of the Irish race in America. ' 

He died far away from the land of his love, on 
which all his fondest and dearest hopes were centred, 
from the sacred spot that clasps the ashes of his dead, 
and the home where the golden hours of his youth 
sped swiftly away. 

Often, when the labor of the day was done, would 
he go back in spirit to those scenes hallowed by a 
thousand memories. His fondest hopes ever turned 
eastward to the shores of Erin and found expression 
in pathetic poems like the 

WISHING CAP. 

Wishing cap, wishing cap, let us away 
To walk in the cloisters, at close of day, 
Once trod by the friars of ordei-s gray, 
In Norman Selskar's renown 'd abbaye 

And Carmen's ancient town; 
For I would kneel at my mother's grave, 
Where the plumey churchyard elms wave, 

And the old war-walls look down. 

Two nations mourned his untimely death, and 
innumerable prayers were offered for the repose of 



352 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

his immortal spirit. May he join the celestial sin- 
gers, and rest in everlasting glory ! 

As a poet McGee ranks high, indeed. The lamented 
Henry Giles, a man of national reputation, writing 
of McGee, says: "How varied the poems were that 
he breathed forth upon the woes and wrongs of Ire- 
land ! How noble the strains in which he celebrated 
that beautiful land of much calamity and countless 
wrongs!" 

The Dublin Nation of May, 1857, referring to our 
author's published poems, speaks thus: " We might 
search in vain, even through the numberless volumes 
of English poems and lyrics, for any that eqvial in 
their passion, fire and beauty his verses entitled 
' The War,' ' Sebastian Cabot to his Lady,' ' The Celt's 
Salutation,' and man^^ others." 

The London Athenasum, which could have very lit- 
tle sympathy with McGee, in an article on Canadian 
poetrj^ wrote: "They have one true poet within 
their borders — that is Thomas D'Arcy McGee. In 
his younger days the principle of rebellion inspired 
him with stately verse; let us hope that the con- 
servative principles of his more mature years will 
yield many a noble song in his new country." 

We might keep on quoting the words of praise 
that were bestowed on the poetry of McGee almost 
ad infinitum. He touched the chords of charity and 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 363 

friendship, war, peace and patriotism, and each he 
swept with a master hand. 



THE HOMEWARD BOUND. 

Paler and thinner the morning moon grew , 
Colder and sterner the rising wind blew ; 
The pole-star had set in a forest of cloud, 
And the icicles crackled on spar and on shioud, 
When a voice from below we heard feebly cry: 
" Let me see, let me see my own land ere I die." 

" Ah, dear sailor, say, have we sighted Cape Clear? 
Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near ? 
You are young, ray brave boy; thanks, thanks for your hand- 
Help me up, till I get a last glimpse of the land. 
Thank God, 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky; 
I shall see, I. shall see my own land ere I die. 

" Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble and old, 
And one-half of my heart is already stone-cold. 
Forty years work a change ! when I first crossed the sea 
There were few on the deck that could grapple with mej 
But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, 
And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die. " 

' Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the deck 

His arm round a kindly young mariner's neck , 

His ghastly gaze fixed on the tints of the east. 

As a starveling might stare at the noise of a feast. 

The morn quickly rose and revealed to his eye 

The land he had prayed to behold, and then die! 

24 



354 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done; 

High and haughty the capes the white surf dashed upon; 

A gray ruined convent was down by the strand. 

And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the land! 

*' God be with you, dear Ireland!" he gasped with a sigh; 

" I have lived to behold you — I'm ready to die." 

He sunk by the hour, and his pulse 'gan to fail, 
As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale ; 
Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower, 
And his coi^se was clay -cold as we sighted Tramore. 
At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie 
In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. 

THE CELTIC CROSS. 

Through storm, and fire, and gloom, I see it stand, 

Firm, broad, and tall — 
The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland, 

Amid them all ! 
Druids, and Danes, and Saxons vainly rage 

Around its base; 
It standeth shock on shock, and age on age. 

Star of our scattered race. 

O, Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread 

Death of our Lord, 
Around thee long have slept our Martyr-dead, 

Sward over sward ! 
An hundred Bishops I myself can count 

Among the slam — 
Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount 

Of God's ripe grain. 



THOMAS d'akcy m'gee. 355 

The Recreant's hate, the Puritan's claymore, 

Smote thee not down; 
On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar. 

In mart and town; 
In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, 

We find thee still, 
Thy open arms still stretching to thine own. 

O'er town, and lough and hill. 

And they would tear thee out of Irish soil, 

The guilty fools ! 
How time must mock their antiquated toil 

And broken tools ! 
Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retired. 

Baffled and thrown; 
William and Anne to sap thy site conspired — 

The rest is known! 

Holy Saint Patrick , Father of our Faith , 

Beloved of God ! 
Shield thy dear church from the impending scathe, 

Or, if the rod 
Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise 

To emprise high. 
Men like the heroic race of other days, 

Who joyed to die ! 

Fear! Wherefore should the Celtic people fear 

Their Church's fate ? 
The day is not — the day was never near — 

Could desolate 



356 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

The Destined Island, all whose seedy clay 

Is holy ground — 
Its Cross shall stand till that predestined day, 

When Erin's self is drowned ! 



SALUTATION TO THE CELTS. 



Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be, 
In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea — 
Whether they guard the banner of St. George in Indian vales, 
Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails — 

One in name and in fame 

Are the sea-divided Gaels. 

II. 

Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land — 
Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Lewellyn's 

band- 
Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies degenerate to tales, 
And the cloisters of lona are bemoan'd by northern gales — 
One in name and in fame 
Are the sea-divided Gaels. • v 

III. 

In Northern Spain and Brittany our brethren also dwell; 
Oh! brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell; — 
The eagle and the crescent in the dawn of history pales 
Before their fire, that seldom flags, and never wholly fails: 

One in name and in fame 

Are the sea-divided Gaels. 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 357 

IV. 

A greeting and a promise unto them all we send ; 
Their character our charter is, their gloiy is our end; 
Their friend shall be our friend , our foe whoe'er assails 
The past or future honors of the far-dispersed Gaels: 

One in name and in fame 

Are the sea-divided Gaels. 

THE EXILE'S REQUEST. 

Oh, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, 
Let it be some token still of the green old land, once mine; 
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me, 
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. 

For I was born in Ireland — I glory in the name — 
I weep for all her sorrows, I remember well her fame! 
And still my heart must hope that I may yet repose at rest, 
On the Holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel of the West. 

Her beauteous face is furrowed with sorrow's streaming rains, 
Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's ancient chains, 
Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart or eye, 
The Island of the gifted, and of men who knew to die. 

Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is bleak and bare, 
But the vigor of its lips still show what fire and force were there, 
Even now in the heaving cratere, far from the gazer's ken, 
The fieiy heel is forging that will crush hei- foes again. 

Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign. 
Let it be some token still of the green old land , once mine ; 
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me 
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. 



358 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. 

Bright is the Spring time, Erin, green and gay to see; 
But my heart is heavy, Erin, with thoughts of thy sons and thee; 
Thinliing of your dead men lying as thick as grass new mown — 
Thinking of your myriads dying, unnoted and unknown — 
Thinking of your myriads flying beyond the abysmal waves — 
Thinking of your magnates sighing, and stifling their thoughts 
like slaves ! 

Oh! for the time, dear Erin, the fierce time long ago. 

When your men felt brave, dear Erin, and their hands could 

strike a blow ! 
When your Gaelic chiefs were ready to stand in the bloody 

breach — 
Danger but made them steady; they struck, and saved their 

speech ! 
But where are the men to head ye, and lead you face to face, 
To trample the powers that tread ye, men of the fallen race! 

The yellow corn, dear Erin, waves plenteous o'er the plain; 
But where are the hands, dear Erin, to gather in the grain? 
The sinewy man is sleeping in the crowded churchyard near. 
And his young wife is keeping his lonesome company there, 
His brother shoreward creeping, has begged his way abroad. 
And his sister — tho' for weeping, she scarce could see the road. 

No other nation, Erin, but only you would bear 
A yoke like youi-s, oh! Erin, a month, not to say a year; 
And will you bear it for ever, writhing and sighing sore, 
Now learn — learn now, or never, to dare, not to deplore — '■ 
Learn to join in one endeavor your creeds and people all — 
'Tis only thus can you sever your tyrant's iron thrall. 



THOMAS d'akcy m'gee. 359 

Then call your people, Erin, call with a Prophet's cry — 

Bid them link in union, Erin, and do like men or die — 

Bid the hind from the loamy valley, the miller from the fall — 

Bid the craftsman from his alley, the lord from his lordly hall — 

Bid the old and the young man rally, and trust to work — not 

words. 
And thenceforth ever shall ye be free as the forest birds. 



TO A FRIEND IN AUSTRALIA.* 

Old friend! though distant far, 

Your image nightly shines upon my soul; 

I yearn toward it as toward a star 

That points through darkness to the ancient pole. 

Out of my heart the longing wishes fly, 

As to some rapt Elias, Enoch, Seth; 
Yours is another earth, another sky, 

And I — I feel that distance is like death. 

Oh! for one week amid the emerald fields, 
Where the Avoca sings the song of Moore; 

Oh! for the odor the brown heather yields. 
To glad the pilgrim's heart on Glenmalure ! 

Yet is there still what meeting could not give, 

A joy most suited of all joys to last; 
For, ever in fair memory there must live 

The bright, unclouded picture of the past. 



Charles Gavan Dnfify. 



360 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Old friend! the years wear on, and many cares 
And many sorrows both of us have known; 

Time for us both a quiet couch prepares — 
A couch like Jacob's, pillow'd with a stone. 

And oh ! when thus we sleep may we behold 
The angelic ladder of the Patriarch's dream; 

And may my feet upon its rungs of gold 
Yours follow, as of old, by hill and stream! 

CONSOLATION. 



Men seek for treasure in the earth; 

Where I have buried mine, 
There never mortal eye shall pierce, 

Nor star nor lamp shall shine ! 
We know, my love, oh! well we know, 

The secret treasure-spot, 
Yet must our tears forever fall, 

Because that they are not. 

II. 

How gladly would we give to light ^ 

The ivory forehead fair — 
The eye of heavenly-beaming blue, 

The clust'ring chestnut hair — 
Yet look around this mournful scene 

Of daily earthly life , 
And could you wish them back to share 

Its sorrow and its strife ? 



THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 361 

m. 

K blessed angels stray to earth, 

And seek in vain a shrine , 
They needs must back return again 

Unto their source divine: 
All life obeys the unchanging law 

Of Him who took and gave , 
We count a glorious saint in heaven 

For each child in the grave. 

IV. 

Look up, my love, look up, afar, 

And diy each bitter tear; 
Behold, three white-robed innocents 

At heaven's high gate appear ! 
For you and me and those we love, 

They smilingly await — 
God grant we may be fit to join 

Those Angels at the Gate. 



THE EXILE'S DEVOTION. 

I'd rather be the bird that sings 

Above the martyr's grave. 
Than fold in fortune's cage my wings 

And feol my soul a slave; 
I'd rather turn one simple verse 

True to the Gaelic ear, 
Than Sapphic odes I might rehearse 

With senates lisfning near. 



362 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

O Native Land! dost ever mark, 

When the "world's din is drown'd, 
Betwixt the daylight and the dark 

A wandering solemn sound, 
That on the western wind is borne 

Across thy dewy breast ? 
It is the voice of thase who mourn 

For thee, far in the West! 

For them and theirs, I oft essay 

Your ancient art of song, 
And often sadly turn away, 

Deeming my rashness wrong; 
For well I ween, a loving will 

Is all the art I own. 
Ah me, could love suffice for skill, 

What triumphs I had known ! 

My native land, my native land, 

Live in my memory stiU ! 
Break on my brain, ye surges grand! 

Stand up, mist-covered hill! 
Still in the mirror of the mind 

The land I love I see; 
Would I could fly on the western .wind, 

My native land, to thee! 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 863 

THE DYING CELT TO HIS AMERICAN SON. 

My son, a darkness falleth, 

Not of night, upon my eyes; 
And in my ears there calleth 

A voice as from the skies; 
I feel that I am dying, 

I feel my day is done, 
Bid the women hush their crying 

And hear to me, my son! 

When Time my gailand gathers, 

Oh! my son, I charge you hold 
By the standard of your fathers 

In the battle-fields of old ! 
In blood they wrote their story 

Across the fields, my boy; 
On earth it was their glory. 

In heaven it is their joy. 

By St. Patrick's hand 'twas planted 

On Erin's sea-beat shore, 
And it spread its folds, undaunted, 

Through the drift and the uproar; — 
Of ail its vain assaulters, — 

Who could ever say he saw 
The last of Ireland's altars ? 

Or the last of Patrick's law ? 

Through the western ocean driven, 

By the tyrant's scorpion whips, 
Behold ! the hand of Heaven 

Bore our standard o'er the ships' 



364 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

In the forest's far recesses, 

When the moon shines in at night, 

The Celtic cross now blesses 
The weary wanderer's sight! 

My son, my son, there falleth 

Deeper darkness on my eyes; 
And the Guardian Angel calleth 

Me by name from out the skies. 
Dear, my son, I charge thee cherish 

Christ's holy cross o'er all; 
Let whatever else may perish, 

Let whatever else may fall. 

THE VIRGIN MARY'S KNIGHT. 

A BALLAD OF THE CRUSADES. 



[In the " Middle Ages," there were Orders of Knights especially devoted to 
our Blessed Lady, as well as many illustrious individuals of knightly rank 
and renown. Thus the Order called Servites, in France, was known as les 
esclaves de Marie; and there was also the Order of " Our Lady of Mercy," 
for the redemption of captives; the Templars, too, before their fall, were 
devoutly attached to the service of our Blessed Lady.] 



Beneath the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood, 
But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood. 
Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel prostrated far, who see 
The hill where Christ's atoning blood pour'd down the penal 

tree ; 
Their theme was old, their theme was new, 'twas sweet and 

yet 'twas bitter, — 
Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter, 
And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron breast. 
For a dear wife , or plighted maid , far in the widow'd West. 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 365 

Towards the knights came Constantine, thrice noble by his 

birth , 
And ten times nobler than his blood his high out-shining worth; 
His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he 

spoke. 
Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke. 
" What aileth thee, O Constantine, that solitude you seek? 
If counsel or if aid thou need'st, we pray thee do but speak; 
Or dost thou mourn, like other freres, thy lady-love afar 
Whose image shineth nightly through yon European star?" 

Then answer'd courteous Constantine — "Good sir, in simple 

truth , 
I chose a gracious lady in the hey-day of my youth ; 
I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold, 
The secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told. 
For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even, 
I ne'er shall see my mistress dear, until we meet in heaven; 
But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one 
Such lady as my Holy Love, beneath the blessed sun." 

He ceased, and pass'd with solemn step on to an olive grove, 
And, kneeling there, he pray'd a prayer to the Lady of his love. 
And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintain'd his own 
Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequalled one, 
Look'd tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight; 
With wonder and with generous pride they mark'd the light'ning 

light 
Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers' ranks, 
As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. 



366 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

"He fears not death, come when, it will; he longeth for his love, 
And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells 

above. 
How should he fear for dying, when his mistress dear is dead?" 
Thus often of Sir Constantine his watchful comrades said; 
Until it chanced from Zion wall the tatal arrow flew, 
That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom through ; 
And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine, 
As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine. 

Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, 
Where with a halo round his head the Christian champion lay; 
That talisman upon his breast — what may that marvel be 
Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free ? 
Approach! behold! nay, worship there the image of his love, 
The heavenly Queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above , 
Nor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light , 
For the spotless one that sleepeth was the Blessed Virgin's 
Knight I 



AMERGIN'S ANTHEM ON DISCOVERING INNISFAIL. 

Behold! behold the prize 
Which westward yonder lies 1 
Doth it not blind your eyes' 

Like the sun ? 
By vigil through the night. 
By valor in the fight, 
By learning to unite 

'T may be won! 't maybe won I 
By learning to unite, 'i may be won! 



THOMAS d'arcy m'gee. 367 

Of this, in Scythian vales, 
Seers told prophetic tales, 
Until our Father's sails 

Quick uprose ; 
But the gods did him detain 
In the gen'rous land of Spain, 
Where in peace his bones remain 

With his foes, with his foes — 
Where in peace his bones remain with his foes. 

Sad Scotia ! mother dear ! 

Cease to shed the mournful tear — 

Behold the hour draws near 

He foretold; 
And, ye men, with one accord. 
Drop the oar and draw the sword, 
For he only shall be lord 

Who is bold, who is bold — 
He only shall be lord who is bold! 

They may shroud it up in gloom 
Like a spirit in the tomb, 
But we hear the voice of doom 

As it cries; 
Let the cerements be buret. 
And from thy bonds accused. 
Isle of Isles, the fairest, fii-st, 

Arise! arise! 
Isle of Isles, the fairest, first, arise! 



368 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Couch the oar and strike the sail, 
Ye warriors of the Gael ! 
Draw the sword for Innisfail! 

Dash ashore ! 
With such a prize to gain, 
Who would sail the seas again! 
Innisfail shall be our Spain 

Evermore! evermore! 
Innisfail shall be our Spain evermore ! 



THE CELTS. 

Long, long ago, beyond the misty space 

Of twice a thousand yeai-s, 
In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race, 

Taller than Roman spears; 
Like oaks and towera, they had a giant grace. 

Were fleet as deers, 
With winds and wave they made their 'biding-place. 

These Western shepherd-seers. 

Their ocean-god was Man-a-nan, M'Lir, . 

Whose angiy lips, 
In their white foam, full often would inter 

Whole fleets of ships; 
Cromah, their day -god and their thunderer, 

Made morning and eclipse; 
Bride was their queen of song, and unto her 

They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips. 



THOMAS d'aecy m'gee. 369 

Great were their deeds, their passions, and their sports; 

With clay and stone 
They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts 

Not yet o'erthrown; 
On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council-courts; 

While youths alone, 
With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, 

And brought them down. 

Of these was Finn, the father of the bard 

Whose ancient song 
Over the clamor of all change is heard. 

Sweet-voiced and strong. 
Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd, 

The fleet and young; 
From her the lovely, and from him the fear'd, 

The primal poet sprung. 

Ossian ! two thousand years of mist and change 

Surround thy name — '^ 
Thy Finian heroes now no longer range 

The hills of fame. 
The very name of Finn and Gaul sound strange — 

Yet thine the same — 
By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange — 

Remains, and shall remain! 

The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed 

We scarce can trace. 
There is not left an undisputed deed 

Of all your race, 



25 



370 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Save your majestic song, which hath their speed, 

And strength and grace ; 
In that sole song they Hve, and love, and bleed — 

It bears them on through space. 

Oh, inspired giant! shall we e'er behold 

In our own time 
One fit to speak 3'our spirit on the wold, 

Or seize your rhyme ? 
One pupil of the past, as mighty soul'd 

As in the prime, 
Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold — 

They of your song sublime ! 

THE IRISH WIFE. 

I WOULD not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon 

land — 
I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand: 
For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or land, or life — 
An outlaw, but I'm near her! — to love, till death, my Irish wife! 

Oh ! what would be this home of mine — a ruin'd, hermit-haunted 
place — 

But for the light that nightly shines upon its walls from Kath- 
leen's face ? 

What comfort in a mine of gold — what pleasure in a loyal life — 

If the heart within lay dead and cold — if I could not wed ray 
Irish wife ? 

I knew the law forbade the banns — I knew my king abhorred 

her race — 
Who never bent before their clans, must bow before their ladies' 

grace. 



THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 371 

Take all my forfeited domain; I cannot wage, with kinsmen, 

strife; 
Take knightly gear and noble name, — but I will keep my Irish 

wife ! 

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes — my heaven by day, my stars 

by night — 
And twin-like truth and fondness lie within her swelling bosom 

white. 
My Irish wife has golden hair — Apollo's harp had once such 

strings — 
Apollo's self might pause to hear her bird-like carol when she 

sings! 

I would not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon 

land — 
I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand ! 
For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life — 
In death I would be near her, and rise — beside my Irish wife! 



IF WILL HAD WINGS, HOW FAST I'D FLEE. 

If will had wings, how fast I'd flee 
To the home of my heart o'er the seething sea ! 
If wishes were power — if words were spells, 
r d 1 )e this hour where my own love dwells. 

My own love dwells in the storied land, 
Where the Holy Wells sleep in yellow sand; 
And the emerald lustre of Paradise beams 
Over homes that cluster round singing streams. 



372 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

I, sighing, alas! exist alone — 
My youth is as grass on an iinsiinn'd stone, 
Bright to the eye, but unfelt below — 
As sunbeams that lie over Arctic snow. 

My heart is a lamp that love must relight, 
Or the world's fire-damp will quench it quite. 
In the breast of my dear my life-tide springs — 
Oh, I'd tarry none here, if will had wings. 

For she never was weary of blessing me, 
When morn rose dreary on thatch and tree; 
She evermore chanted her song of faith. 
When darkness daunted on hill and heath. 

If will had wings, how fast I'd flee 
To the home of my heart o'er the seething sea ! 
If wishes were power — if words were speUs, 
I'd be this hour where my own love dwells. 

A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 

Seven weary years in bondage the young St. Patrick pass'd, 
Till the sudden hope came to him to bi'eak his bonds at last; 
On the Antrim hills reposing with the North star overhead 
As the grey dawn was disclosing " I trust in God," he said — 
" My sheep will find a shepherd and my master find a slave, 
But my mother has no other hope , but me , this side the grave. 

Then girding close his mantle, and grasping fast his wand. 
He sought the open ocean through the by-ways of the land. 
The berries from the hedges on his solitary way. 
And the cresses from the waters were his only food by day. 



THOMAS d'aecy m'gee. 873 

The cold stone was his pillow, and the hard heath was his bed, 
Till looking from Benbulben, he saw the sea outspread. 

He saw that ancient ocean, unfathomed and unbound. 
That breaks on Erin's beaches with so sorrowful a sound. 
There lay a ship at Sligo bound up the Median sea, 
" God save you, master mariner, will you give berth to me ? 
I have no gold to pay thee, but Christ will pay thee yet." 
Loud laughed that foolish mariner, "Nay, nay, He niight 
forget!" 

" Forget! oh, not a favor done to the humblest one, 

Of all His human kindred, can 'scape th' Eternal Son!" 

In vain the Christian pleaded, the willing sail was spread. 

His voice no more was heeded than the sea-birds overhead — 

And as the vision faded, the ship against the sky, 

On the briny rocks the Captive prayed to God to let him die. 

But God, whose ear is open to catch the sparrow's fall. 
At the sobbing of his servant frowned, along the waters all — 
The billows rose in wonder and smote the churlish crew. 
And around the ship the thunder like battle-arrows flew ; 
The screaming sea-fowl's clangor, in Kishcorran's inner caves, 
Was hushed before the anger of the tempest-trodden waves 

Like an eagle-hunted gannet, the ship drove back amain, 
To where the Christian captive sat in solitude and pain — 
" Come in," they cried, " oh. Christian, we need your company, 
For it was sure your angry God that met us out at sea. " 
Then smiled the gentle heavens, and doffed their sable veil 
Then sank to rest the breakers and died away the gale. 

So sitting by the Pilot the happy captive kept 

On his rosary a-reck'ning, while the seamen sung or slept. 



374 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Before the winds propitious past Achill, south by Ara, 

The good ship gliding left behind Hiar Connaught like an 

arrow — 
From the southern brow of Erin they shoot the shore of Gaul, 
And in holy Tours, Saint Patrick findeth freedom, friends, 

and all. 

In holy Tours he findeth home and Altars, friends and all; 

There matins hail the morning, sweet bells to vespers call; 

There's no lord to make him tremble, no magician to endure, 

No need he to dissemble in the pious streets of Tours; 

But ever, as he rises with the morning's early light, 

And still ere while he sleepeth, when the North star shines at 

night; 
When he sees the angry ocean by the tempest trod , 
He murmurs in devotion — ' ' Fear nothing ! Trust to God ! " 




SAMUEL LOVER 

POET, PAINTER AND NOVELIST. 

^^ HOOVERS are given to poetry," wrote Shak- 
1^1 speare, and the subject of our memoir was 
no"e^eption to the general rule. On the 24th of 
February, 1797, Samuel Lover was born in the city 
of DubMn. His parents were people of means and 
education. His first studies were made at a boys' 
academy in his native city, where he applied him- 
self with so much ardor that his health gave way, 
and, acting on a physician's advice, his parents pro- 
cured him a comfortable lodging with a farmer in 
the County Wicklow, where he could enjoy fresh air 
and plenty of exercise. At this plastic period the 
wild and beautiful scenery of Wicklow made a deep 
and lasting impression on his mind. Rambling at 
will among the romantic vales, and conversing with 
the noble and generous peasantry, he gained not only 
physical strength but also a large fund of knowledge 
relative to the habits and customs of the people 
whose traits he was destined to describe in song and 

story. 

The memory of his sojourn in Wicklow remained 

(S75) 



376 



IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 



with Lover, and in after years he gave to it a more 
tangible form in these verses, entitled: 




. MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 

My mountain home ! my mountain home ! 
Dear are thy hills to me ! 

Where first my childhood loved to roam- 
Wild as the summer bee; 

The summer bee may gather sweet 
From flowers in sunny prime ; 

And memory brings with wing as fleet, 
Sweet thoughts of early time. 

Still fancy bears me to the hills 
Where childhood loved to roam — 

I hear, I see your sparkling rills, 
My own, my mountain home! 



SAMUEL LOVER. 377 

At the age of sixteen Samuel was taken from 
school and placed in his father's office, there to be 
initiated into the keeping of accounts — uncongenial 
business for a poet ! — and so it proved in the case of 
young Lover, who gave more of his time to study 
and sketching than to his father's accounts. For 
this his father remonstrated with him, but to no 
purpose. The young poet-painter would follow the 
strong bent of his nature, despite all the remon- 
strances of an anxious parent. So, with the firm 
resolution of cleaving his own way in the world he 
left the paternal mansion and patiently applied him- 
self to the study of art. For three years he labored 
with indomitable zeal and perseverance, during all 
this time supporting himself principally by copying 
music and sketching portraits, which in those days 
were in good demand. Like Gerald Griffin, young 
Lover more than once felt the pangs of want; but his 
purpose never weakened, even in the darkest hour 
of adversity. 

Having spent three years in study he came before 
the public as a marine and miniature painter. He 
was then only twenty years old, and towards the close 
of 1818 he became the most popular artist in Dublin. 
In literary circles he was also recognized as a man 
of considerable poetic genius; and, when Moore 
visited his native city, the citizens invited him to 



378 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

write a poem for the occasion. On the evening of 
the banquet in honor of the great Irish melodist, 
Lover was there with his song brimful of Irish 
humor. 

The song describes a caucus of the gods, who were 
to elect a poet laureate for Mount Olympus. 

Scott, Southey, Lord Byron and Campbell were 
nominated for the exalted position and received some 
votes, but Moore was tlie successful candidate. We 
have room here for three or four verses only: 

T' other day Jove exclaimed, with a nod most profound, 
While the gods of Olympus in state sat around , 
" I have fully resolved, after weighty reflection, 
To soon set a-going a poet's election. " 
" A good thought, Jupiter boy!" 

While the gods were discussing matters appertain- 
ing to election, Juno put in a claim for woman^s rights: 

" 1 request, though," said Juno, " you'll let it be known 
Why this right of election the gods have alone ; 
On this point as on others I differ from you , 
And insist every goddess shall have a vote, "too." 
' ' Brave Juno ! stand up for your rights. " 

Then Jupiter said, " Let it be so, my dear, 
Let th' election commence; bid the poets appear; 
The polling concluded, whoever is found 
To have carried most votes shall our poet be crowned." 
" Fair play, Jupiter boy!" 



SAMUEL LOVER. 37^ 

Here each delegate introduced some favorite: 

But Mercury said he " should now bring in sight 

A bard who was every one's pride and delight — 

Who Melpomene, Venus, Thalia, could lure; 

They all knew who he meant, and so need he say Moore ?" 

Some time after the festivities of this evening 
Moore desired to be introduced to the rising poet, 
whom he warmly thanked for the high compliment 
he had received on his return from abroad. Moore's 
mother requested a copy of the verses ; and ever after 
that; Lover remained an esteemed friend of the Moore 
family 

His repution as a portrait painter being established, 
and with a fast-increasing fame as a poet, Lover mar- 
ried a cultured young lady named Miss Berrel, the 
daughter of a Dublin architect, a man of marked 
ability and liberal means. The Berrels were an old 
Catholic family, very much devoted to the ancient 
faith; and Lover, who was born and raised a Protes- 
tant, had no difficulty in promising never to inter- 
fere with his wife in the full and free exercise of her 
religion. He kept his promise, and his domestic life 
was a happy one. 

In 1828 he became Secretary of the Royal Hiber- 
nian Academy, and faithfully discharged the duties 
of that office up to the time of his removal to Lon- 
don, where the latter part of his life was spent. 



380 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Dividing his time about equally between the brush 
and pen, paintings, poems and stories issued from 
his studio in rapid succession, and for each piece of 
work the compensation received was ample,. His 
many-sided mind developed some new talent almost 
every month; and not the least profitable was the 
aptitude he had for caricaturing, in a humorous way, 
certain politicians of his time. His " Irish Horn 
Book," published in 1831, illustrates this statement. 
This book contained many clever etchings by Lover, 
and most of the satirical articles were from his 
trenchant pen. 

In 1832 appeared his " Legends and Stories of Ire- 
land," chiefly made up of articles which he had writ- 
ten for the magazines. The same year he painted a 
picture of the celebrated violinist, Paganini, which 
won a world-wide fame. This portrait, when sent 
the following year to the Art Exhibition at the Royal 
Academy, London, attracted general attention and 
took the prize from the miniatures of Ross and the 
renowned Thorburn. Having painted very fine por- 
traits of the Duke of Wellington, Lord Cloncurry, 
Sir John Conroy and others, he was invited by the 
Duchess of Kent to paint a portrait of Princess Vic- 
toria. Circumstances, however, which he could not 
control prevented his going to England. In failing 
to go to England for this purpose it was said he lost 



SAMUEL LOVER. 381 

a great opportunity, as he might have gained for 
himself the title of "Portrait-painter to her gracious 
Majesty." Lover, however, was both too patriotic 
and sensible to attach much value to such a distinc- 
tion. When it was noised abroad that such an offer 
was made, a Dublin punster remarked that in case 
of the Irishman's acceptance the " Court chronicler 
would have to announce a Lover instead of a Hayter* 
as the incumbent of the office." 

He settled permanently in London in 1837, where 
he devoted most of his time to hard work. Among 
his intimate friends at that time were Rev. Dr. Crolly, 
Father Prout, Mrs. Jamieson, Miss Landon, Lady 
Blessington and Thomas Campbell, the poet. 

Here his pen was kept as busy as his brush, and 
his brain seldom rested. He wrote songs for operas 
and stories for half a dozen magazines. For Mme. 
Vestris, then very popular in England, he wrote and 
set to music, " Under the Rose," " The Angel's Whis- 
per," " The Four-Leaved Shamrock," "The Land of 
the West," and many other pieces which became im- 
mensely popular and were sung daily in the streets 
of London. In London he dramatized his first real 
novel, " Rory O'More," and its representation on 
the stage was a complete success. For one hundred 
and eight nights it drew a crowded house. Speaking 

* Sir George Hayter then held the office. 



382 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

of its popularity the Athenseum said that " Rory 
O'More — a triple glory in song, story and drama — 
was the attraction of the day, and that Samuel Lover 
seemed to communicate his own sweet temperament 
to all around him." 

In this story the author endeavored to do justice 
to the character of his countrymen, and of his efforts 
an English magazine says: 

" Hearty, honest, comic, sensible, tender, faithful and coura- 
geous Rory is the true ideal of the Irish peasant — the humble 
hero who embodies so much of the best of the national char- 
acter, and lifts simple emotion almost to the height of ripened 
judgment." 

Lover's principal recreation consisted in giving 
informal receptions to his intimate friends and 
associates. It is related that on being presented at 
one of those social gathering to Madame Malibran, 
the brilliant artiste exclaimed in broken English: 
" Will you lend me the loan of a gridiron? " 

At one of his little entertainments, a young lady 
of high social standing who had been^for years an 
ardent admirer of the Irish people remarked that 
she was meant for an Irishwoman. 

'' Cross the channel. Madam," said Lover, " and 
thousands of people well say you were meant for an 
Irishman." 

A great success as miniature painter. Lover now 



SAMUEL LOVER. 



883 



turned his attention to song-writing, and in that also 
he excelled. 

The Dublin University Magazine has well said that 
" as poet, painter and novelist, Lover won sufficient 
celebrity to make the fame of three different men." 

In the preface to the fifth edition of his '' Poetical 
Works," he designates a few of the rules that should 
be observed in order to write a good song. 

" A song," he says, " must be constructed for sing- 
ing rather than for reading; and hence, to accommo- 
date the vocalist, it should be built up of words hav- 
ing as many vowels and as free from guttural and 
hissing sounds as possible." 

Moore and Burns, he considers, masters of the art 
of song-writing, and points out the many beauties of 
their songs by reason of the liberal use of open- 
vo welled words. 

Of the three hundred poems written by himself, 
all but fifty are songs adapted to old airs— generally 
native Irish airs. It is impossible to attempt any- 
thing like a criticism of these within the limits of 
this brief paper; but, in passing, it may be said that 
^'Rory O'More," "The Angel's Whisper" and "The 
Fairy Boy " are favorites — and very deservedly so — 
wherever the English language is spoken. Unlike 
the hedge poets he seldom indulged in classical 
allusions. His metaphors and similes are home- 



•384 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

spun, the very soul of simplicity — and all the better 
for that. 

The late Dr. Shelton Mackenzie, who knew Lover 
well and was qualified to pass judgment on his 
works, wrote in the Philadelphia Press: 

' ' Samuel Lover was the author of man}^ admirable baUads, 
humorous and pathetic, which are likely to last even as long 
as Moore's beautiful melodies. I need only mention ' Molly 
Carew,' ' Widow Machree,' ' The Low Back Car,' ' The Bowld 
Sojer Boy,' and the 'Four-leaved Shamrock.' He also wrote 
novels and plays, of which ' Handy Andy' is the best known, 
owing to its being several times dramatized. 

" Incredible as it may appear," the same distinguished writer 
goes on to say, " ' Handy Andy,' the man and his nickname, 
was not a mere creation and creature of the imaefination. 
Years before Lover wrote anything concerning that singular 
character I had heard a good deal about him. My knowledge 
arose in this manner: 

" One stormy day, traveling in the mail-coach from the 
County Cork to that of Limerick, whither I was going to 
spend the Christmas at my uncle's, it was my misfortune to 
be upset, with the total wreck of the vehicle, within a mile of 
Kilmallock. As the snow was three feet deep, and no convey- 
ance could be obtained , my only fellow -traveler determined that 
we shquld not encounter the fatigue of walking into Kilmallock, 
but spend the evening in the only tavern of the little village 
where the accident had happened. 

" ' It's a plain place,' he said, ' but they can supply as good a 
rasher of bacon and eggs as ever was served up; and their beds 
are clean and comfortable to a degree. ' 



SAMUEL LOVER. 385 

' ' It required little persuasion to induce me to act on this 
advice, given on my companion's personal experience, and we 
made out that Christmas Eve in the little village tavern. 

" Ere we parted my friend told me that, in the ancient chiv- 
alry of Ireland there were four hereditary knights, all of them 
Fitzgeralds and each of them having living representatives. 
These were the White Knight, the Red Knight, the Knight of 
Kerry, and the Knight of Glin. He himself was the last of 
these, deriving his title from the Castle of Glin, which stands 
in the center of a fine estate near the River Shannon, and has 
been owned by one branch of the Fitzgerald family for more 
than six hundred years. 

' ' That evening as we sat by the cheerful turf fire in the 
humble hosteliy which had received us, the Knight of Glin 
told me a great deal about Handy Andy. This was fully thir- 
teen years before Mr. Lover had introduced that worthy to the 
readers of Bentley's Miscellany. 

" ' His name,' the Knight said, ' is Andrew Sullivan, but he 
had such a propensity for doing and saying things in a way 
they ought not to be done or said, that from an early age every 
one spoke of him and to him as ' ' Handy Andy "—he being the 
unhandiest fellow in the world. His misfortune was that he 
took everything said to him in a natural sense. One morning 
when I was shaving with cold water, Andy, good-natured 
enough, brought me up a small jug of hot water. ' Where am 
1 to empty this ? ' he asked, pointing to the mug of cold water 
I had been using. I told him to throw it out of the window, 
(of course , meaning the water only) ; but matter-of-fact Andy 
raised the window, and pitched not only the water, but also the 
China mug that held it, into the yard below, and then looked 

26 



386 lEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

cheerfully at me as if he deserved praise for having carried out 
my instructions to the letter. 

" ' On another occasion when I was high sheriff of the county, 
I had to give a big dinner at Glin Castle to the Judges of 
Assize, the Grand Jury and the members of the bar. Several 
baskets of champagne for consumption on that occasion were 
obtained from the city of Limerick. There was need of many 
servants to wait on table, and Andy was put into livery. 
Unfortunately my caterer was an Englishman, who seeing 
Andy doing nothing, called out: ' You Hoirish feller there, just 
put this champagne into that 'ere tub of h'ice, h'and look shard 
that no feller takes some of it !' 

" 'Andy literally carrying out his instructions did put the 
wine into the tub, uncorking bottle after bottle of it to the 
extent of two dozen; and when champagne was called for at 
dinner, dragged in the tub, and told how he really had poured 
the wine into the ice, as he had been ordered. Fortunately 
there was more of the generous fluid, so no very great harm 
was done. It was impossible, no matter how angry one might 
be , to avoid laughing at the numerous and curious blunders of 
Handy Andy. He has grown gray in my service , and though 
I dismiss him every three months or so on some new aggrava- 
tion, he slips back again and I cannot continue angry with him,' 

"Many other illustrations of this original character were 
told me by the Knight, but my limited space does not permit me 
to mention them." 

These and many other ludicrous incidents in the 
life of Handy Andy, IMr, Lover strung together on a 
slender thread, and, in the end, landed his hero up 
among the peers of the realm — the proper place for 
a booby to end his days. 



SAMUEL LOVER. 387 

Lover's eyesight began to fail in 1844, and he was 
obliged to abandon painting altogether, though this 
was his chief means of support. In order to make 
up for the loss he had sustained in this way, he 
arranged a literary and musical entertainment which 
he called " Irish Evenings." This species of amuse- 
ment was not so common in those days as it is with 
us, and the " Evenings " took immensely both in 
England and Ireland. This entertainment consisted 
of an olla podrida of his own most popular songs and 
stories. He selected two young ladies to assist him 
with the songs, while he always kept for himself the 
recital of the stories. The proceeds from this source 
relieved him for a time from financial embarrass- 
ments, and the enthusiastic receptions which awaited 
him everywhere he appeared in Ireland were ex- 
tremely gratifying to his genial Irish heart. 

He repeated his " Evenings " throughout the large 
cities of the United States in the fall of 1846. Here 
he did not meet with that measure of success that 
attended his efforts at home, owing principally to 
the fact that entertainments of that character were 
nothing new in our Eastern cities, even at that early 
day. His mission to the United States was not a 
failure, however, and, unlike so many literary snobs 
who come out from "h'old H'engiand" in the capacit}^ 



388 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

of tourists, he was able to appreciate the worth and 
progress of our Republican institutions. 

At Niagara Falls he wrote a poem commencing: 

Nymph of Niagara ! sprite of the mist ! 
With a wild magic, my brow thou hast kiss'd; 
I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, 
For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. 

During his visit to America, Lover's wife died, and 
shortly after his return to England the death of his 
favorite daughter made his life desolate, and unfitted 
him for a long time for any kind of work. 

Subsequently, his publishers induced him to edit a 
volume of poems containing the best selections from 
the bards of Erin. This work he accomplished in a 
very creditable manner. His notes and comments 
on the different epochs of Irish poetry are to the 
present day models of English composition. 

When the Burns' Centenary Festival was held in 
Glasgow, January, 1859, Lover was invited to repre- 
sent the poets of Ireland there. Called on to respond 
to ''the ladies," he remarked that it was proper, meet 
and natural that a lover should be chosen to reply to 
such a toast. 

" Rival Rhymes in Honor of Burns," are the pro- 
ducts of his pen, though published under the nom de 
plume of Ben Trovato. These are imitations of Father 
Prout, Longfellow, Hood, Thackeray, Campbell and 



SAMUEL LOVER. 



389 



Lord Macaulay. In one of these imitations he felici- 
tiously enumerates the different names by which 
poets go in different countries: 

In France they called them Troubadours, 

Or Menestrels by turns; 
The Scandinavians called them Scalds, 

The Scotchmen call their's Bums. 

A writer of his acquaintance having given his 
opinion on the relative merits of Moore and the 
author of Rory O'More, Lover replied- 

" I think there is more of the ' touch of nature ' in my writ- 
ings than in his. I think, also, there is more feeling, and 
beyond all doubt lam much more Irish." 

Though writing to a Scotchman, Lover seemed to 
have felt proud of his Irish blood, birth and feeling, 
and he has left proof positive that he loved his race 
and country. 

As mentioned heretofore, Lover was fond of 
entertaining his literary friends at his own residence 
in London. Very often he gave them not only a 
good dinner, but a little to pay their craving credi- 
tors also. Among his guests one evening was a 
needy friend whom Lover could not accommodate 
with " a loan." 

After supper was over, and while chatting over 
their punch, it was agreed upon that each one should 
write a verse embodying his individual opinion of 



390 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

the host. Slips of paper were procured, and, in a 
short time, everybody's brain and pencil went to 
work. The nameless verses were all deposited in a 
satchel, well shaken, then extracted one by one and 
read in the presence of the whole company. Among 
many flattering squibs the following was found: 

What he is I've had cause to discover, 

And thus doth experience tend — 
He may be sublime as a Lover, 

But very so-so as a friend. 

An American writer describes the poet, painter 
and novelist in the Atlas, published in Boston at the 
time of Lover's visit to the States: 

' ' But who is that lively little gentleman whom everybody is 
shaking hands with, and who shakes hands with everybody in 
turn? He is here, there and everywhere, chattering away 
delightfully, it would seem, and dispensing smiles and arch 
looks in profusion. How his black eyes twinkle, and what fun 
there is in his face ! He seems brimful and running over with 
humor, and looks as if Care never had touched him. And then 
listen to that Milesian brogue ! Reader, perhaps you have never 
heard an educated Irishman talk! Well, if so, you have lost a 
treat. That natty, dear duck of a man, as the ladies say, is 
a universal favorite everywhere. He is at once poet, painter, 
musician and novelist. He widtes songs, sets them to music, 
illustrates them with his pencil, and then sings them as no one 
else can. 

"Hurrah! we have Rory O'More in our midst. Sam Lover, 
I beg to introduce you to the American public." 



SAMUEL LOVER. 391 

About the end of 1867 close application to work 
and old age confibined began to tell on our author's 
health, which, early in the following year rapidly 
failed. In the seventy-second year of his age he 
calmly passed away, on the 6th day of July, 1868, at 
St. Helier's, Jersey, England. 

On the 15th of the same month he was buried in 
Kensal Green, London. The Marquis of Donegal in 
command of the Irish Volunteers, of which Lover 
was an old member, attended his funeral. 

We cannot close this memorial of one who did so 
much during his long life to vindicate his country's 
right to the proud title of " Queen of Song " without 
quoting the tablet to his memory placed in one of 
the aisles of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. The 
inscription runs thus: 

"In memory of Samuel Lover, poet, painter, novelist and 
composer, who in the exercise of a genius as distinguished in its 
versatility as in its power, by his pen and pencil illustrated so 
happily the characteristics of the peasantry of his country, that 
his name will ever be honorably identified with Ireland." 

THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock 

In all the fairy dells. 
And if I find the charmed leaves, 

Oh, how I'll weave my spells. 



392 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

I would not waste my magic might 
On diamond, pearl or gold; 

For treasures tire the weary sense — 
Such triumph is but cold. 

But I would play the enchanter's part 
In casting bliss around ; 

Oh ! not a tear nor achinor heart 
Should in the world be found, 
Should in the world be found. 

To worth I would give honor, 

I'd dry the mourner's tears; 
And to the pallid lip recall 

The smile of happier years. 
And hearts that had been long estranged, 

And friends that had grown cold, 
Should meet again Hike parted streams, 

And mingle as of old. 
Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part. 

Thus scatter bliss around ; 
And not a tear nor aching heart 

Should in the world be found. 

Should in the world be found. 

The heart that had been mourning 

O'er vanished dreams of love. 
Should see them all returning, 

Like Noah's faithful dove. 
And Hope should launch her blessed bark 

On Sorrow's dark'ning sea. 
And Mis'ry's children have an ark. 

And saved from sinking be. 



393 



SAMUEL LOVER. 

Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, 

Thus scatter bliss around, 
And not a tear nor aching heart 

Should in the world be found, 

Should in the world be found. 

RORY O'MORE. 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn; 
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. 
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
" Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), 
" With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about; 
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." 
"Oh! Jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 
You've thrated my heart for this many a day; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the like, 

For I half gave a promise to sootherin' Mike; 

The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound—" 

" Faith," says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the ground." 

" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; 

Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hatin' you so!" 

" Oh," says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to hear, 

For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; 

Oh! jewel, keep dramin' that same till you die, 

And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie! 

And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 

Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 



894 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough, 
Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; 
And I've made myself drinkin' your health quite a baste, 
So I think after that, I may talk to the priest." 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm 'round her neck, 
So soft and so white , without freckle or speck , 
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light. 
And he kissed her sweet lips; — don't you think he was right ? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more. 
That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before." 
" Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure, 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 

MOLLY BAWN. 
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, 

Lonely waiting here for you ; 
The stars above are brightly shining, 

Because they've nothing else to do. 
The flowers late were open keeping. 

To try a rival blush with you , 
But their mother. Nature, set them sleeping, 

With their rosy faces washed with dew. 
Oh, Molly Bawn— oh, Molly Bawn. 
The pretty flowers were made to bloom ^ dear. 

And the pretty stars were made to shine; 
The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, 

And maybe you were made for mine. 
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling, 

He takes me for a thief, you see; 
He knows I'd steal you, Molly, Darling, 

And then " transported " I would be. 

Oh, Molly Bawn— oh, Molly Bawn. 



SAMUEL LOVER. 395 

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 

A BABY was sleeping, 

Its mother was weeping, 
For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea, 

And the tempest was swelling, 

Round the fisherman's dwelling — 
And she cried: " Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me!" 

Her beads while she numbered , 

The baby still slumber'd 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; 

"Oh! blest be that warning. 

My child's sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 

" And while they are keeping 

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me — 

And say thou wouldst rather 

They'd watch o'er thy father. 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." 

The dawn of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing. 
Said: " I knew that the angels were whispering with thee. " 



396 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

THE FAIRY BOY. 



[When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the 
healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.] 



A MOTHER came, when stars were paling, 

Wailing 'round a lonely spring; 
Thus she cried while tears were falling. 

Calling on the fairy King: 
*' Why with spells my child caressing. 

Courting him with fairy joy; 
Why destroy a mother's blessing. 

Wherefore steal my baby boy ? 

" O'er the mountain, through the wild wood, 

Where his childhood loved to play; 
Where the flowers are freshly springing, 

There I wander, day by day. 
" There I wander, growing fonder 

Of the child that made my joy; 
On the echoes wildly calling. 

To restore my fairy boy. 

" But in vain my plaintive calling, - 

Tears are falling all in vain; 
He now sports with fairy pleasure. 

He's the treasure of their train! 
" Fare thee well, my child, forever. 

In this world I've lost my joy; 
But in the next we ne'er shall sever. 

There I'll find my angel boy ! " 



REV. FRANCIS MAHONY 

(father prout). 

INHERE are, indeed, few pseudonyms in the 
K broad extent of English literature that have 
attained greater celebrity than that of " Father 
Prout," the classic sage of Watergrasshill, near Blar- 
ney. Even the renowned names of Sir Morgan 
O'Dougherty and Barry Cornwall pale before that 
synonym of wit, waggery, and linguistic lore, so 
often appended to the spiciest articles that ever 
adorned the pages of Fmzer's Magazine. 

The city of St. Finbar, on the "banks of the Lee," 
reckons this literary genius among the number of its 
illustrious sons. In that delightful old capital of 
Munster he was born in the year 1804, of parents 
who were neither rich nor poor, but could boast of a 
long line of ancestors whose martial renown haloes 
the vicinity of Dromore Castle, the cunabulum of the 
sept of the O'Mahonys, in the Kingdom of Kerry. 
" By the pleasant waters of the river Lee " Francis 
Sylvester Mahony grew to the estate of a gossoon, and 
went to school, where, it is said, " he picked up with 
equal facility the Munster brogue and the rudiments 

of an education." At the early age of twelve years, 

(397) 



EEV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 399 

before Frank had had much time for dreaming 
among the " Groves of Blarney " or kissing the 
" Eloquent Stone," being destined by his parents for 
the holy priesthood, he was shipped off to the Con- 
tinent and placed under the guidance of those great 
masters of scholastic learning, the Jesuit Fathers, 
who were soon compelled to recognize the brilliant 
talents of the laughing, lively Cork boy. Under 
these teachers, both in St. Acheul and at their semi- 
nary in Paris, Frank was wont to say that he 
" breathed a very atmosphere of Latinity and im- 
bibed Greek with as much facility and gusto as an 
Irish beggarman would buttermilk." However dis- 
posed we may be to take the latter part of this 
declaration cum grano salts, it is certain that those 
erudite masters of belles-lettres seldom cultivated a 
young mind more fertile and susceptible than was 
that of the future author of the " Prout Papers." 
Even before he entered the Jesuit novitiate in the 
suburbs of Paris, where he was destined to try his 
vocation for the Order, he could turn his ideas into 
Latin hexameters with eloquence and ease, while he 
spoke that classic tongue with a fluency and accent 
which would do credit to a Roman of the Augustan 
age. French and Italian were to him a second ver- 
nacular, and of the Germanic language and literature 
he was by no means ignorant. 



400 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Having received deaconship in the Jesuit College 
at Rome, Rev. Francis Mahony set out for Ireland, 
from which he had been so long absent; but on his 
way thither he w^as told by no less a personage than 
the Provincial that his superiors thought that the 
young deacon had no vocation — at least for their 
Society — and therefore would not be admitted to the 
priesthood by them. 

The Rubicon was already passed, the indelible 
character was stamped, and, undeterred by this ad- 
monition, Frank pursued his course to the shores of 
his native land and gained admission to the Jesuit 
College of Clongowes Wood, Kildare, in order to test 
still further his vocation to labor in the ranks of 
Loyola's sons; for hitherto he had not the remotest 
intention of becoming a secular priest. Apropos of 
a secular priest, the learned padre was asked by the 
wits of Frazer's Magazine, soon after he had discon- 
tinued his sacerdotal functions, for the definition of 
a "circular priest," when he immediately answered: 

Ens rotundum 

Per universum mundum, 

Nihil agens, sed omnia rapiens. 

There is more of a display of learning than of truth 
in this answer. 

In September, 1830, the Roman deacon entered 
Clongowes College and was soon promoted to the 



REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 



401 



Chair of Rhetoric by the Rev. Peter Kenny, then 
President of that institution, and afterwards known 
in this country as the '' great Jesuit of the West." 
Among his rhetoricians were two young men des- 
tined in the near future to be classed among the con- 
tributors of Frazer's and Bentley's, and to impress 
the names of John Sheehan, "The Irish Whisky 
Drinker," and F. S. Murphy on the literary records 
of the period. 

Soon after the Rev. Frank's inauguration at Clon- 
gowes, the '' boys got a free day, " for which a 
coursing party was gotten up, and the master of 
rhetoric, at the head of his disciples, started out 
bright and early, making a bee line for Maynooth, 
where the party took dinner. On their return, the 
learned youths were entertained at the house of a 
country squire, where the head of the family treated 
them with characteristic Irish generosity, until one 
of the guests frankly confessed that he had "no 
remembrance of the number of songs sung, of patri- 
otic toasts and healths proposed, of speeches made, 
or of decanters emptied." The party broke up late, 
and, starting for the college, they were overtaken by 
a terrible thunderstorm which completely unnerved 
the majority of the youths, who, fortunately, were 
picked up in the nick of time by some passing dra}^- 
men, and landed about midnight at the gate of their 



27 



402 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

ahna mater. This luckless episode put a period to 
the career of Rev. Frank in liis native Isle, and in a 
few days after he was in a position to exclaim, with 
the hero of Virgil's epic, " Feror exul in altum;" 
and he might have added, "Ad litora Hiberniae nun- 
quani rediturus," for, living, he never more beheld 
the shores of Ireland. Arriving in the Eternal City, 
where he formed the acquaintance of his distin- 
guished fellow- townsman, Barry, the painter, he 
resumed and completed his theological studies, and 
was ordained a priest, having previously obtained an 
exeat from Dr. Murphy, the bishop of his native 
diocese. As a priest he returned to London, where 
he acted as curate to the celebrated Dr. Magee; but 
after due consideration — consideration which came, 
alas ! too late — he concluded that he had entered the 
fold without being among those of whom tlie High 
Priest said, " Ego elegi vos," and thenceforth re- 
frained from obtruding himself on the sanctuary. 

The belief that the Rev. Francis Mahon}^ returned 
to Ireland after his ordination, and served in the 
capacity of curate under a veritable Father Prout, P.P. 
of Watergrasshill, whose name the young scribe 
assumed in writing for the Cork papers, was very 
common at one time. But the fact is, after his de- 
parture from Clongowes in the autumn of 1830, he 
never returned until he came to mingle his dust with 



KEV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 403 

the ashes of his sires under the shadow of Shandon 
steeple, whose " chimes " he praised in exquisite and 
immortal verse. 

Though Father Prout, forced by conscientious con- 
siderations, retired from sacerdotal duties, he alwaj^s 
wore a dark infra genua threadbare coat, for which 
he seemed to evince as much attachment as did his 
fellow-poet, Mangan, for his weather-worn umbrella; 
and from the day he was raised to the sub-deaconate 
until a short time before his death, when he obtained 
a dispensation from Rome, he was faithful to the 
recitation of the divine office, and he never suffered 
a scoff or jeer directed against the sacerdotal charac- 
ter to escape unreproved. 

But in one of his best and most serious papers, 
*' Literature and the Jesuits," he indulges in droll- 
eries. "The Groves of Blarney," writes he, in this 
learned paper, " do not better deserve the honor of a 
pilgrimage than this (Clongowes) venerable institu- 
tion. Lady Morgan wishes to explore the learned 
cave of these literary cenobites, but the Sons of 
Ignatius ' smelt a rat,' and acted on the principle of 
the Irish Saint Senanus, who wrote: 

' ' ' Quid foeminis 
Commune est cum monachis? 
Nee te, nee ullam aliam 
Admittamus in insulam. ' " 



404 IBI8H POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

However, it is seldom that he considers Lady 
Morgan or her sex worthy of his steel, while he 
always seems ready and willing to leap astride his 
Rosinante and ''tilt a spear" with Dr. Denis Lard- 
ner, or that mortal whom Shelley styles 

' ' The sweetest lyric of his saddest song. " 

" the poet of all circles and the idol of his own." 
The learned padre handles Tommy without gloves 
in " The Rogueries of Tom Moore," where he bare- 
facedly accuses the lyrist of pilfering from the Greeks 
and Romans, and even the French, to increase the 
volume of his song: 

' ' The best of all ways 
To lengthen our lays 
Is to steal a few thoughts from the French, my dear." 

But the melodist's plagiarisms do not stop here, 
nor even m India, whence he returns spoliis Orientis 
onustum, but he must descend to the petty larceny 
of appropriating one of Front's own juvenile effu- 
sions to a " Beautiful Milkmaid," who was accus- 
tomed to cross his path when yet a tyro in Greek 
and Latin lore. To use Front's inimitable language, 
" Everything was equally acceptable in the wa}'' of 
song to Tommy, and provided I brought grist to his 
mill, he did not care where the produce came from 
— even the wild oats and thistles of native growth 



EEV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 405 

on Watergrasshill, all was good provender for his 
Pegasus. He saw my youthful effusion to an Irish 
milkmaid, grasped it with avidity, and I find he has 
given it word for word, in an English shape, in his 
' Irish Melodies.' Let the intelligent reader judge 
if he has done common justice to my young muse: 

IN PULCHRAM LACTIFERAM. 

CARMEN, AUCTORE PROUT. 

Lesbia semper hinc et inde, 

Oculorum tela movet ; 
Captat omnes, sed deinde, 

Quis ametur nemo novit 
Palpebrarum, Nora cara, 

Lux tuarum non est foris, 
Flamma micat ibi rara, 

Sed sinceri lux amoris. 
Nora Creina sit regina, 

Vultu, gressu tam modesto! 
Haec, puellas inter bellas, 

Jure omnium dux esto. 

Lesbia vestes auro graves 

Fert et gemmis, juxta normam, 
Gratiae sed, eheu! suaves 

Cinctam reliquere formam. 
Norae tunicam praeferres 

Flante zephyro volantem , 
Oculis et raptis erres 

Contemplando ambulantem ! 



406 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Veste Nora, tain decora, 

Semper indui momento, 
Semper purae sic naturae 

Ibis tecta vestimento. 

Lesbia mentis praefert lumen, 

Quod coruscat perlibenter, 
Sed qviis optet hoc acumen 

Quando acupuncta dentur? 
Noras sinu cum recliner, 

Dormio luxuriose, 
Nil corrugat hoc pulvinar, 

Nisi crispae ruga rosae. 
Nora blanda, lux amanda 

Expers usque tenebrarum, 
Tu cor mulces per tot dulces 

Dotes, fons illecebrarum ! 

Compare this with Moore's '' Nora Creina," and 
you will see that it lacks nothing of the original in 
rhyme, rhythm or euphony, and that Prout is as 
great a master of the mechanism of verse in the 
Latin as Moore in the English tongue. It is in this 
paper, also, that " The Bells of Shandon " first 
appeared, and gained for the gifted author a place 
among the poets of his country. This beautiful 
ballad has been printed in innumerable newspapers 
and magazines, and consequently must be familiar 
to every lover of literature. 



KEY. FRANCIS MAHONY. 407 

THE SHANDON BELLS. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon Bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee; 
With thy bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine. 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would viljrate — 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine; 
For memory dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling. 

Its bold notes free. 



^^ IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old " Adrian's Mole " in, 
Their thunder rollino- 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame; 
But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly — 
O ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk, O! 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summits 

Of tall minarets. 



REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 409 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them, 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

The first of the Prout Papers, " An Apology for 
Lent," appeared in Frazer's for April, 1834, and won 
its author a place among the best and most brilliant 
of those whose contributions made that magazine 
one of the raciest and most readable publications in 
the British Isles. Started by Hugh Frazer in 1830, 
this magazine was placed under the editorial man- 
agement of William Maginn, LL.D., a fellow towns- 
man of Prout's, and also of the talented Daniel Mac- 
lise, C Alfred Croquis,") whose etchings illustrated 
and adorned the pages of that monthly, which reck- 
oned among its staff, Southey, Carlyle, Ainsworth, 
Thackeray and Coleridge. Yet even among such 
literary geniuses the editor of the '^ Reliques " does 
not hesitate to say that "as a philologist, as a wit, 
as a lyrist, as a master of persiflage, Frank Mahony 
stepped conspicuously to the front with his earliest 
contribution to Frazer' s Magazine ^ In many of the 
dead and most of the modern tongues he was facile 



410 IlilSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

princeps; and this fact we might illustrate by numer- 
ous examples, if the limits of this paper allowed. 
His polyglot edition of Mr. Milliken's " Groves of 
Blarney " is serio-comic. The idea of clothing this 
quaint rhapsod}'^ in an Athenian mantle or Galilean 
surtout is in itself sufficient to test the risible facul- 
ties of a Stoic philosopher. Imagine how the follow- 
ing lines appear in Greek, to say nothing of the 
Latin rendering: 

There is a stone there 

That whoever kisses, 

Oh! he never misses 

To grow eloquent. 

'Tis Tie may clamber 

To a lady's chamber 

Or become a member 

Of parliament: 

A clever spouter 

He'll turn out, or 

An out-and-outer 

" To be let alone ;" 

Don't hope to hinder him, x 

Or to bewilder him; 

Sure he's a pilgrim 

From the Blarney Stone. 

" The Athenians," says Father Prout, "thought 
that the ghosts of departed heroes were transferred 
to our fortunate island, which they call, in the war 
songs of Hermodius and Aristogiton, the 'land of 



REV. FRANCIS MAHONY, 411 

O's and Macs;' and so the ' Groves of Blarney ' have 
been commemorated by the Greek poets many cen- 
turies before the Christian era." When our author 
took a place among the confreres of Frazer's Magazine, 
he was thirty years of age, and before he had com- 
pleted his thirty-second year, those twenty-four papers 
which constitute the " Reliques of Father Prout " 
had indelibly stamped his name in brilliant char- 
acters on the roll of literary worthies. Speaking of 
the merits of these papers, a writer in the Universal 
Review, after much praise, winds up in the following 
energetic language: "They are a mixture of tory- 
ism, classicism, sarcasm and punch." Of these 
papers, '* A Plea for Pilgrimages " is perhaps in 
''larky fun" the richest, as the one on the Jesuits is 
certainly the most learned. In this latter paper, 
which he illustrates with apt and ample quotations 
from the poets, he evinces throughout his undying 
gratitude to the sons of Loyola who have equally 
distinguished themselves in the Republic of Letters 
and the Monarchy of the Church, 

Contrasting the neglect with which Barry the 
painter was treated while living, and the public 
honors paid him when dead, he aptly quotes Fon- 
taine's " Ode to Chateaubriand," which, like Gold- 
smith's " Bed by night and chest of drawers by 
day," will serve here in the double capacity of illus- 



412 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

trating the policy above referred to, and at the same 
time demonstrating our author's ability as a trans- 
lator from the French : 

ODE TO CHATEAUBRIAND. 

TRANSLATION. 

I 'VE known a youth with genius cursed — 
I Ve marked his eye hope-lit at first , 
Then seen his heart indignant burst , 

To find its efforts scorned. 
Soft on his pensive hour I stole , 
And saw him draw, with anguish 'd soul, 
Glory's immortal muster-roll, 

His name should have adorn'd. 

His fate had been, with anxious mind, 
To chase the phantom Fame — to find 
His grasp eluded; calm, resigned, 

He knows his doom — he dies. 
Then comes Renown, then Fame appears, 
Gloiy proclaims the coffin hers, 
Aye, greenest over sepulchres 

Palm-tree and laurel rise. 

After severing his connection with Frazer's, Father 
Mahony returned to the Continent, where he spent 
his remaining years, between Rome and Paris, in 
the capacity of special correspondent to the London 
Daily News and Globe, writing under the assumed 
name of " Don Jeremy Savonarola." Occasionally, 



REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 413 

during these years of absence, he contributed to the 
Cornhill Magazine, edited by his old chum Thackeray, 
and also to Charles Dickens' publication, Bentley's 
Miscellany. He recited his breviary regularly and 
though well he knew and loved "Vida" and "Virgil," 
it is said he knew and loved the Roman Psalter still 
better. On account of failing sight, he received, a 
short time before his death, a dispensation from the 
divine office substituting, as is customary in such 
cases, the Rosary. 

At length came warnings of the final summons 
— that summons which consigns alike to the same 
common clay the brightest genius and the most 
stupid dullard — and Father Mahony sent to the 
parish church of St. Roch for Abbe Rogerson, who 
attended immediately, and found his penitent well 
disposed to receive the last rites of the Church. As 
there is much misvmderstanding as to the dispositions 
and circumstances in which Father Mahony died, we 
shall quote here the words of his confessor, Abbe 
Rogerson, referring to this disputed question. Find- 
ing Father Mahony sitting in an arm-chair, poorly 
clad and waiting with anxiety the coming of a fellow- 
priest, the Abbe now writes: 

' ' Thanking me for patient and persevering attention to him 
during his sickness, he asked pardon of me and of the whole 
world for offenses committed against God and to the prejudice 



414 IKI8H POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

of his neighbor, and then sinlcing down in front of me with his 
face buried in his two hands, and resting them on my knees, he 
received from me, with convulsive sobs, the words of absolution. 
His genial Irish heart was full to overflowing, * * * and 
he was as a child wearied and worn out after a day's wander- 
ings when it had been lost and found again, when it had hun- 
gered and was again fed. I raised him up, took him in my 
arms, and laid him on his bed as I would have treated such a 
little wanderer of a child, and left him without leave-taking on 
his part, for his heart was too full for words." 

These words are conclusive. Prejudice or incre- 
dulity need no further proof on this head. On the 
morning following the scene just narrated, Abbe 
Rogerson, on entering the room of his penitent, was 
greeted with the words, " Holy oils," and knowing 
their import, the good priest hastened to anoint the 
d3dng priest and litterateur. " Holy oils" were the 
last articulate sounds that passed Father Mahony's 
lips. On the 18th of May, 1866, he tranquilly 
breathed his last in the presence of his sister and 
his confessor, and on the twenty-seventh day follow- 
ing his remains arrived from Paris ill his native 
city, where his body lay in state at St. Patrick's 
church till the morning of the 28th, when, after a 
Mass of Requiem, Bishop Delaney pronounced the 
final absolutions, and all that was mortal of the Rev. 
Francis Mahony, the brilliant wit and inimitable 
humorist, was deposited in the family vault at Old 



KEY. FRANCIS MAHONY. 415 

Shandon, there to await the resuscitating summons 
— surge ad judicium. 

DON IGNAOIO LOYOLA'S VIGIL 

IN THE CHAPEL OP OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT. 

When at thy shrine, most Holy Maidi 
The Spaniard hung his votive blade 

And bared his helmed brow — 
Not that he feared war's visage grim, 
Or that the battle-field for him 

Had aught to daunt, I trow: 

" Glory!" he cried, " with thee I've done! 
Fame! thy bright theatres I shun. 

To tread fresh pathways now; 
To track Thy footsteps, Saviour, God! 
With throbbing heart, with feet unshod; 

Hear and record my vow. 

' Yes, Thou shalt reign! Chained to Thy throne 
The mind of man Thy sway shall own, 

And to it's conqueror bow. 
Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift. 
And intellect it's choicest gift 

Proudly on Thee bestow. " 

Straight on the marble floor he knelt. • 
And in his breast exulting felt 

A vivid furnace glow; 
Forth to his task the giant sped , 
Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, 

And idols were laid low. 



416 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

India repaired half Europe's loss; 
O'er a new hemisphere the Cross 

Shone in the azure sky; 
And, from the isles of far Japan 
To the broad Andes, won o'er man 

A bloodless victory ! 

THE TRI-COLOR. 

A PROSECUTED SONG. 

Comrades, around this humble board, 

Here's to our banner's by -gone splendor I 
There may be treason in that word — 
All Europe may the proof afford — 
All France be the offender; 
But drink the toaet 
That gladdens most. 
Fires the young heart and cheers the old: 
May France once more 
Her tri-color 
Bleased with new life behold ! 

List to my secret. That old flag 

Under my bed of straw is hidden, 
Sacred to glory ! War-worn rag ! ^ 
Thee no informer thence shall drag. 
Nor dastard spy say 'tis forbidden, 
France, I can vouch, 
Will from its couch , 
The dormant symbol yet unfold, 
And wave once more 

Her tri-color 
Through Europe, uncontrolled.' 



BEV. FliANCIS MAHONY. 417 

For every drop of blood we spent, 

Did not that flag give value plenty ? 
Were not our children as they went 
Jocund, to join the warrior's tent, 
Soldiers at ten, heroes at twenty? 
France! who were then 
Your noblemen ? 
Not they of parchment — must and mould! 
But they who bore 

Your tri-color 
Through Europe, uncontrolled! 

Leipsic hath seen our eagle fall, 

Drunk with renown, worn out with glory; 
But, with the emblem of old Gaul 
Crowning our standard, we'll recall 
The brighest days of Valmy's story ! 
With terror pale 
Shall despots quail, 
When in their ear the tale is told, 
Of France once more 
Her tricolor 
Preparing to unfold ! 

Trust not the lawless ruffian chiel, 

Worse than the vilest monarch he ! 
Down with the dungeon and Bastile ! 
But let our country never kneel 
To that grim idol. Anarchy! 
Strength shall appear 
On our frontier- 
's 



ilS IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

France shall be Liberty's stronghold ! 
Then eartli once more 
'i'he tri-color 
With blessings shall behold ! 

O my old flag! that liest hid, 

There where my sword and musket lie- 
Banner, come forth! for tears unhid 
Are filling fast a warrior's lid, 
Which thou alone canst dry, 
A soldier's grief 
Shall find relief, 
A veteran's heart shall be consoled — 
France shall once more 

Her tri-color 
Triumphantly unfold ! 



PRAY FOR ME. 

A BALLAD. 



[Prom the French of Milleroye, on his death-bed at the village of Neuilly.] 



Silent, remote, this hamlet seems — ' ^ 

How hushed the breeze ! the eve how calm ! 
Light through my dying chamber beams, 

But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
Kind villagers ! God bless your shed ! 

Hark! 'tis for prayer — the evening bell — 
Oh, stay! and near my dying bed. 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 



BEV. FEANCIS MAHONY. 419 

When leaves shall strew the waterfall 

In the sad close of autumn drear, 
Say, " The sick youth is freed from all 

The pangs and woe he suffered here. " 
So may ye speak of him that's gone ; 

But when your belfry tolls my knell, 
Pray for the soul of that lost one — 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 

Oh! pity her in sable robe, 

Who to my grassy grave will come; 
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe — 

She was my love ! — point out my tomb; 
Tell her my life should have been hers— 

'T was but a day!— God's will!— 'tis well; 
But weep for her, kind villagers! 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 

THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO. 

Let us sing how the boast of the Saracen host 

In the gulf of Lepanto was scattered, 
When each Knight of St. John's from his cannon of bronze, 

With grape-shot their argosies battered. 
Oh ! we taught the Turks then that of Europe the men 

Could defy every infidel menace — 
And that still o'er the main float the galleys of Spain, 

And the red-lion standard of Venice ! 

Quick we made the foe skulk, as we blazed at each hulk, 

While they left us a splinter to tire at; 
And the rest of them fled o'er the waters, blood red 

With the gore of the Ottoman pirate; 



420 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

And our navy gave chase to the infidel race, 

Nor allowed them a moment to rally; 
And we forced them at length to acknowledge our strength 

In the tent, in the field, in the galley! 

Then our men gave a shout and the ocean throughout 

Heard of Christendom's triumph with rapture. 
Galleottes eighty-nine of the enemy's line 

To our swift-sailing ships fell a capture; 
And I firmly maintain that the number of slain 

To at least sixty thousand amounted: 
To be sure, 'twas sad work if the life of a Turk 

For a moment were worth being counted. 

We may well feel elate, though I'm sorry to state, 

That albeit by the myriad we've slain 'em, 
Still the sons of the Cross have to weep for the lass 

Of six thousand who fell by the Paynim. 
Full atonement was due for each man that they slew. 

And a hecatomb paid for each hero; 
But could all that we'd kill give a son to Castile, 

Or to Malta a brave cavalhero ? 

St. Mark for the slain intercedes not in vain — 

There's a mass at each altar in Venice ; 
And the saints we implore for the banner they bore 

Are Our Lady, St. George and St. Denis. 
For the brave, while we grieve, in our hearts they shall live. 

In our mouths shall their praise be incessant; 
And again and again we will boast of the men 

Who have humbled the pride of the Crescent. 



REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 421 

ODE TO THE WIG OF FATHER BOSCOVICH, 

THE CELEBRATED ASTRONOMER. 



[From the Italian of Julias Caesar Cerdara.] 



With awe I look on that peruke, 

Where learning is a lodger. 
And think, whene'er I see that hair 
Which now you wear, some ladye fair 

Had worn it once , dear Roger ! 

On empty skull most beautiful 
Appeared, no doubt, those locks, 

Once the bright grace of pretty face ; 

Now far more proud to be allowed 
To deck thy " knowledge box." 

Condemned to pass before the glass 

Whole hours each blessed morning, 
'Twas desperate long, with curling-tong 
And tortoise shell , to have a belle 
Thee frizzing and adorning. 

Briffht rinfflets set as in a net, 

To catch us men like fishes ! 
Your every lock concealed a stock 
Of female wares — love's pensive cares, 

Vain dreams, and futile wishes! 

That chevelure has caused, I'm sure. 

Full many a lover's quarrel ; 
Then it was decked with flowers select 
And myrtle sprig; but now a WIG, 
'T is circled with a laurel ! 



422 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Where fresh and new, at first they grew. 

Of whims, and tricks, and fancies, 
Those locks at best were but a nest; — 
Their being spread on learned head 
Vastly their worth enhances. 

From flowers exempt, uncouth, unkempt- 
Matted, entangled, thick! 

Mourn not the loss of curl or gloss. 

'Tis infra dig. Thou art the wig 
Of Roger Boscovich ! 



MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAREWELL TO SCULPTURE. 

I feel that I am growing old — 
My lamp of clay! thy flame, behold, 
'Gins to burn low; and I've unrolled 

My life's eventful volume ! 
The sea has borne my fragile bark 
Close to the shore — now rising dark, 
O'er the subsiding wave I mark 

This brief world's final column. 

'Tis time my soul, for pensive mood, 

For holy calm and solitude; 

Then cease henceforward to delude 

Thyself with fleeting vanity. 
The pride of art, the sculptured thought, 
Vain idols that my hand hath wrought — 
To place my trust in such were naught 

But sheer insanity. 



KEV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 423 

What can the pencil's power achieve ? 
What can the chisel's triumph give ? 
A name perhaps on earth may live , 

And travel to posterity. 
But can proud Rome's Pantheon tell 
If for the soul of RafFaelle 
His glorious obsequies could quell 

The Judgment-seat's severity ? 

Yet why should Christ's believer fear, 
While gazing on your image dear ? — 
Image adored, maugre the sneer 

Of miscreant blasphemer. 
Are not those arms for me outspread ? 
What mean those thorns upon thy head ? 
And shall I, wreathed with laurels, tread 

Far from thy paths, Redeemer? 



ON THE DEATH OF FATHER PROUT. 

BY DENIS FLORENCE M'CARTHY 

In deep dejection, but with affection, 

I often think of those pleasant times. 
In the days of Frazer, ere I touched a razor, 

How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes; 
When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal, 
Of Watergrass Hill, O renowned " F. P."— 
May " The Bells of Shandon" 
Toll blithe and bland on 
The pleasant waters of thy memory 



424 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, 

In this social city have I heard since then — 
(With this glass before me, how the dreams come o'er me. 

Of those attic suppers, and those vanished men!) 
But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, 
Or hath left a token of such joy in me, 
As " The Bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the River Lee." 

The songs melodious, which — a new Harmodius — 
Young Ireland wreathed round its rebel sword. 
With their deep vibrations and aspirations ^ 

Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board; 
But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre 
Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee — 
Of "The Bells of Shandon . 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the River Lee." 

There's a grave that rises on thy sward. Devises, 
Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar; 
And a white stone flashes o'er Goldsmith's ashes 

In the quiet cloister of Temple Bar; . 
So, where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest 
Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee. 
While the " Bells of Shandon 
Shall sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the River Lee." 



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